A gentleness of feeling, little habitual to him, stole over John. He did not feel critical--he felt friendly, oh, so compassionate, afraid even to think anything that could add a pang to this man, so forlorn and miserable, denuded of all things. The less he made of his own wretchedness the more profoundly did John feel it. He kept thinking, as he gave him his instructions, of all that this clear intelligence must have suffered shut up in the strait routine of a prison. He could not copy a page or make a calculation without some little running-over of remark, something that brought a smile, that betrayed the lively play of a mind unsubdued by the most tremendous burdens, by all the heavy and horrible experiences of such a life. How could he have borne that, day by day and year by year? A sort of awe, and almost reverence of the tragedy that this humorous, light-hearted being must have lived through, rose in John’s musing soul. It was not until they were finishing their little meal together that the absence of one very natural and usual explanation between them struck the young man. ‘By-the-by,’ John said, suddenly--he was making corrections in one of the papers and did not raise his head--‘By-the-by, it seems very absurd. I don’t even know your name.’ There was a moment’s silence, and then John looked up. He found his companion’s eyes fixed upon him with his usual half smile of observation, and dubious humorous uncertainty. When John met his eye he changed his position a little with a momentary laugh. ‘I have been so long out of the habit of thinking a name necessary,’ he said. ‘My name is----’ He paused again, and once more looked at John, in whose face there was no suspicious anxiety, but only a friendly alertness of interest. Something mischievous and mirthful lighted up in the stranger’s eyes: ‘My name is--March,’ he said. ‘And mine is Sandford,’ replied John. The mischievous light went out of the other’s look. His face grew serious; he nodded his head two or three times with gravity. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘It is a name that I have had a great deal to do with in my life; but I don’t suppose you ever heard of me.’ John shook his head. He cleared away with his own hand the last remnants of the luncheon, over which enough time had been expended. ‘Now we’ll get to work again if you are ready,’ he said. He knew nothing of any March. He was not aware that he had ever heard the name. And then they set to work again together pleasantly, cheerfully; John finding something inspiriting in the companionship for all the rest of the afternoon.