above-mentioned,—­that, when there was anything difficult to be explained, or when I was bringing out some favorite illustration of a nice point, (as, for instance, when I compared the cell-growth, by which Nature builds up a plant or an animal, to the glass-blower’s similar mode of beginning,—­always with a hollow sphere, or vesicle, whatever he is going to make,) I naturally looked in his face and gauged my success by its expression.

It was a handsome face,—­a little too pale, perhaps, and would have borne something more of fulness without becoming heavy.  I put the organization to which it belongs in Section C of Class 1 of my Anglo-American Anthropology (unpublished).  The jaw in this class is but slightly narrowed,—­just enough to make the width of the forehead tell more decidedly.  The moustache often grows vigorously, but the whiskers are thin.  The skin is like that of Jacob, rather than like Esau’s.  One string of the animal nature has been taken away, but this gives only a greater predominance to the intellectual chords.  To see just how the vital energy has been toned down, you must contrast one of this section with a specimen of Section A of the same class,—­say, for instance, one of the old-fashioned, full-whiskered, red-faced, roaring-big Commodores of the last generation, whom you remember, at least by their portraits, in ruffled shirts, looking as hearty as butchers and as plucky as bull-terriers, with their hair combed straight up from their foreheads, which were not commonly very high or broad.  The special form of physical life I have been describing gives you a right to expect more delicate perceptions and a more reflective nature than you commonly find in shaggy-throated men, clad in heavy suits of muscles.

The student lingered in the lecture-room, looking all the time as if he wanted to say something in private, and waiting for two or three others, who were still hanging about, to be gone.

Something is wrong!—­I said to myself, when I noticed his expression.—­Well, Mr. Langdon,—­I said to him, when we were alone,—­can I do anything for you to-day?

You can, Sir,—­he said.—­I am going to leave the class, for the present, and keep school.

Why, that’s a pity, and you so near graduating!  You’d better stay and finish this course, and take your degree in the spring, rather than break up your whole plan of study.

I can’t help myself, Sir,—­the young man answered.—­There’s trouble at home, and they cannot keep me here as they have done.  So I must look out for myself for a while.  It’s what I’ve done before, and am ready to do again.  I came to ask you for a certificate of my fitness to teach a common school, or a high school, if you think I am up to that.  Are you willing to give it to me?

Willing?  Yes, to be sure,—­but I don’t want you to go.  Stay; we’ll make it easy for you.  There’s a fund will do something for you, perhaps.  Then you can take both the annual prizes, if you like,—­and claim them in money, if you want that more than medals.