“Buckhurst, he wants to see you; go in there,” said he,—­adding, in a lower tone, “Now, mind you, the child’s delicate as spun glass; so be careful.”

“Come in, Mr. Buckhurst,” called Clarian.

The worthy farmer looked to right and left, as if he would much rather have made his escape, but, impelled by a shove from the Doctor, he ran his fingers through his coarse hair, and, with a very red and “I-wish-I-was-out-of-this” face, went in, closing the door behind him.

“Phew!” said Thorne, seating himself somewhat testily, after having filled and lighted a pipe,—­“Phew!  So that’s over, and I a’n’t sorry; it’s as bad as reading the ‘Diary of a Physician.’  The boy will be all right now, and the lesson won’t hurt him, though it has been a rough one.  But no more metaphysics for him, Ned Blount!  And, boys, let this be a warning to you.  He’s too brittle a toy to be handled in your rough fashion.”

“You needn’t tell us that, Thorne,” said Mac, drawing a long breath.  “Catch me kicking over children’s baby-houses again, or telling ’em ghost-stories in the dark!”

“He vows never again to touch brush, crayon, or pencil; and if he is the devotee you describe him to be, Ned, I would not advise you to oppose him in his determination.  You must keep him here till vacation, and next term he can exchange his room.  Macbeth’s company will never be very agreeable to him, I should judge; and it will not do to let him destroy the picture.”

Thorne puffed away vigorously for a minute or two.

“That boy ought to turn preacher, Mac.  He touched me nearer just now than I have been touched for an age.

  “’His voice was a sweet tremble in mine ear,
  Made tunable with every saddest grief,
  Till those sad eyes, so spiritual and clear,’

almost persuaded me to follow the example of divine Achilles and ‘refresh my soul with tears.’  He has that tear-bringing privilege of genius, to a certainty.”

And so it seemed, indeed; for presently the worthy Mr. Buckhurst made his reappearance in quite a sad state, mopping his red face and swollen eyes most vigorously with a figured cotton handkerchief, and proclaiming, with as much intelligibility as the cold in his head and the peculiar circumstances of the case would admit of, that he’d “be dagg’d ef he hadd’t raver be chucked idto two cadawls dad ’ave dat iddocedt baby beggid his pardod about de codfouded duckid!  Wat de hell did he care about gittid wet, he’d like to kdow?  Dodsedse!—­’twad all dud id fud, adyhow!”

——­“And now you, my dear, dear friends,” said Clarian, turning his sad, full eyes upon us, and calling us to his side, and to his arms.

But I shall draw a veil over that interview.

That night, after we had talked long and lovingly together, and were now sitting, each absorbed in his own thoughts, and emulating the quiet that reigned around college, Clarian softly joined us, and placed an open book in Mac’s hands.