The other lad was somewhat taller than Tom, awkwardly and plainly dressed, but with a highly-developed Byronic turn-down collar, and long black curling locks.  He was certainly handsome, as far as the form of his features and brow; and would have been very handsome, but for the bad complexion which at his age so often accompanies a sedentary life, and a melancholic temper.  One glance at his face was sufficient to tell that he was moody, shy, restless, perhaps discontented, perhaps ambitious and vain.  He held in his hand a volume of Percy’s Reliques, which he had just taken down from Thurnall’s shelves; yet he was looking not at it, but at the landscape.  Nevertheless, as he looked, one might have seen that he was thinking not so much of it as of his own thoughts about it.  His eye, which was very large, dark, and beautiful, with heavy lids and long lashes, had that dreamy look so common among men of the poetic temperament; conscious of thought, if not conscious of self; and as his face kindled, and his lips moved more and more earnestly, he began muttering to himself half-aloud, till Tom Thurnall burst into an open laugh.

“There’s Jack at it again! making poetry, I’ll bet my head to a China orange.”

“And why not?” said his father, looking up quietly, but reprovingly, as Jack winced and blushed, and a dark shade of impatience passed across his face.

“Oh! it’s no concern of mine.  Let everybody please themselves.  The country looks very pretty, no doubt, I can tell that; only my notion is, that a wise man ought to go out and enjoy it—­as I am going to do—­with a gun on his shoulder, instead of poking at home like a yard-dog, and behowling oneself in po-o-oetry;” and Tom lifted up his voice into a doleful mastiff’s howl.

“Then be as good as your word, Tom, and let every one please themselves,” said the Doctor; but the dark youth broke out in sudden passion.

“Mr. Thomas Thurnall!  I will not endure this!  Why are you always making me your butt,—­insulting me, sir, even in your father’s house?  You do not understand me; and I do not care to understand you.  If my presence is disagreeable to you, I can easily relieve you of it!” and the dark youth turned to go away like Naaman, in a rage.

“Stop, John,” said the Doctor.  “I think it would be the more courteous plan for Tom to relieve you of his presence.  Go and find Mark, Tom; and please to remember that John Briggs is my guest, and that I will not allow any rudeness to him in my house.”

“I’ll go, daddy, to the world’s end, if you like, provided you won’t ask me to write poetry.  But Jack takes offence so soon.  Give us your hand, old tinder-box!  I meant no harm, and you know it.”

John Briggs took the proffered hand sulkily enough; and Tom went out of the glass door, whistling as merry as a cricket.

“My dear boy,” said the Doctor, when they were alone, “you must try to curb this temper of yours.  Don’t be angry with me, but—­”