Mr. Lewis had black eyes and hair, and bent like an habitual student.  He had a scar on his right eyebrow, which he had got by a fall, and by which he had saved the life of Mr. Remington, who was a connection of his wife’s.  This he told us, afterwards, and I amused myself with drawing parallels between his face and his mind.  One side was gentle, sweet-humored, sentimental, with a touch of melancholy.  The other, disfigured with the scar, seemed to have been turned harsh, suspicious, proud, reserved, and unrelenting.  These were many qualities, all to depend on a scar, to be sure; but they generally herd together, and he might be one man or another, as life presented its dark or sunny side to him.  To me, he was very interesting, from the first; and my husband was delighted with him.  The Dominie starved in Weston for congenial intellectual nutriment.  Nobody but myself could tell what a drain it was on him always to impart, always to simplify, to descend, to walk on the ground with wings folded flat to his back, and the angel in him habitually kept out of view.  The most he could do was to insinuate now and then a thought above the farming interest, and in a direction aside from Bombay.  More than that exposed him to suspicion, and hindered his usefulness in Cooes County.

Somehow, we got talking of Mr. Remington, which we might well do, seeing him there before us, sleeping like a baby.

“That he could always do, like Napoleon,” said Mr. Lewis, “and so can accomplish much without fatigue.”

“Is he married?” said I.

“Yes.  His wife is in delicate health.”

I was surprised to hear that he was married.

“He hasn’t a married look, has he?”

“You are talking about me,” said Remington, waking up.  “I felt it mesmerically.  And, to give you a good opportunity, I will walk a mile or two.  Give me a good character, Lewis.  Hold up, driver!”

Springing down, he went on, laughing, before us, now and then calling back to ask if we were nearly through?

“He has not the ‘subdued domestic smile upon his features mild’, that marks the man who has a wife at home,” said I.

“No.  He is a man, however, born under a lucky star, and his cup filled with good-fortune to the brim.  His self-lordship has been to him no heritage of woe, thus far.”

“A certain happiness, but necessarily of a poor quality, comes from being able to gratify our wishes.  If he has no more, it is poor enough.”

“Do you mean that pleasure must be an outgrowth of pain to be properly appreciated?” said Mr. Lewis.

“Somewhat,—­mostly,” said the minister; “since the insensibility that protects one from pain prevents also delicate picture.  I think, indeed, a rational being must suffer in order to enjoy, after infancy.”

“His eyes don’t look as if they had been in training of any sort,” said I, without knowing what my words implied, till I saw the harsh expression on Mr. Lewis’s face.’