However, he had, with great difficulty and pains, managed to learn to write—­that is, to sign his name, or indite any short letter to Mr. Menteith or others, which, as he grew older, sometimes became necessary.  But writing was always a great trouble to him; and, fortunately, people were not expected to write much in those days.  Had he been born a little later in his century, the Earl of Cairnforth might have brightened his sad life by putting his imagination forth in print, and becoming a great literary character; as it was, he merely told his tales for his own delight and that of those about him, which possibly was a better thing than fame.

Then he made jokes, too.  Sometimes, in his quiet, dry way, he said such droll things that the Cardross boys fell into shouts of laughter.  He had the rare quality of seeing the comical side of things, without a particle of ill-nature being mixed up with his fun.  His wit danced about as brilliantly and harmlessly as the Northern lights that flashed and flamed of winter nights over the mountains at the head of the loch; and the solid, somewhat heavy Manse boys, gradually growing up to men, often wondered why it was that, miserable as the earl’s life was, or seemed to them, they always felt merrier instead of sadder when they were in his company.

But sometimes when with Helen alone, and more especially as he grew to be a youth in his teens, and yet no bigger, no stronger, and scarcely less helpless than a child, the young earl would let fall a word or two which showed that he was fully and painfully aware of his own condition, and all that it entailed.  It was evident that he had thought much and deeply of the future which lay before him.  If, as now appeared probable, he should live to man’s estate, his life must, at best, be one long endurance, rendered all the sharper and harder to bear because within that helpless body dwelt a soul, which was, more than that of most men, alive to every thing beautiful, noble, active, and good.

However, though he occasionally betrayed these workings of his mind, it was only to Helen, and not to her very much, for he was exceedingly self-contained from his childhood.  He seemed to feel by instinct that to him had been allotted a special solitude of existence, into which, try as tenderly as they would, none could ever fully penetrate, and with which none could wholly sympathize.  It was inevitable in the nature of things.

He apparently accepted the fact as such, and did not attempt to break through it.  He took the strongest interest in other people, and in every thing around him, but he did not seem to expect to have the like returned in any great degree.  Perhaps it was one of those merciful compensations that what he could not have he was made strong enough to do without.