Polydore Riches, as we have said, was much disturbed by the matrimonial escapade of his old pupil. But his profession, his own experience, and his age, had taught him resignation. It was his favourite theory that things seemed evil only because they were but half seen. Could man discern the whole train of events of which an apparent calamity was part, he would find that what was thought a misfortune was really a blessing. But the eye of reason was as short-sighted as that of the body. There were many things beyond its ken. And, as the most powerful telescopes failed to penetrate beyond a certain distance, and served but to make the vastness of the universe more incomprehensible, so the severest logic only availed to show the limits of the human understanding, and to inspire it with reverent humility for things beyond its bounds. This true and grateful optimism enabled the chaplain to overcome the sharpness of sorrow, and to maintain that unruffled quietude of mind which is the happy mean between apathy and over-susceptibility. Yet, as has been more than once hinted, he was not unacquainted with grief. He had been into London one day to visit Helen, and also to try to find some of his old college companions, when he met with what was for him a little adventure. It probably led his thoughts into the course shown in a conversation which he held with Mr. Peach the same evening. "You have several old friends of mine here, Mr. Peach," Polydore said, surveying the row of tall folios which formed his host's library. "Now this is one to whom I was always very partial." And he took down Sir Thomas Browne. "Open this worthy knight where you will, you will be pretty sure to find some intellectual pabulum." "I love his genial and warm-hearted humour," said the old clerk. "I have turned to the Physician's Faith," continued Riches. "I light upon the section beginning--'I never could divide myself from any man upon the difference of an opinion, or be angry with his judgment for not agreeing with me in that, from which within a few days I should dissent myself.'" "The whole passage overflows with charity and good sense," said Peach, rubbing his hands. "And a few leaves further on--there is a paper at the place--is the remark,--'It is we that are blind, not fortune: because our eye is too dim to discover the mystery of her effects, we foolishly paint her blind, and hoodwink the providence of the Almighty.'" Cornelius became rather fidgety, for he saw that the paper which Mr. Riches had mentioned lay upon the open page, and was covered with writing. "You write yourself, my friend," observed Mr. Riches. "Will you allow me...?" "No," answered his host, casting down his eyes. "That is, I do not write. I may sometimes jot down a thought, if a bit of paper is at hand. I cannot bear to defile the margins of my books."