The divinity-student made him a visit, therefore and had a somewhat remarkable interview with him, which I shall briefly relate, without attempting to justify the positions taken by the Little Gentleman.  He found him weak, but calm.  Iris sat silent by his pillow.

After the usual preliminaries, the divinity-student said; in a kind way, that he was sorry to find him in failing health, that he felt concerned for his soul, and was anxious to assist him in making preparations for the great change awaiting him.

I thank you, Sir,—­said the Little Gentleman, permit me to ask you, what makes you think I am not ready for it, Sir, and that you can do anything to help me, Sir?

I address you only as a fellow-man,—­said the divinity-student,—­and therefore a fellow-sinner.

I am not a man, Sir!—­said the Little Gentleman.—­I was born into this world the wreck of a man, and I shall not be judged with a race to which I do not belong.  Look at this!—­he said, and held up his withered arm.—­See there!—­and he pointed to his misshapen extremities.—­Lay your hand here!—­and he laid his own on the region of his misplaced heart.—­I have known nothing of the life of your race.  When I first came to my consciousness, I found myself an object of pity, or a sight to show.  The first strange child I ever remember hid its face and would not come near me.  I was a broken-hearted as well as broken-bodied boy.  I grew into the emotions of ripening youth, and all that I could have loved shrank from my presence.  I became a man in years, and had nothing in common with manhood but its longings.  My life is the dying pang of a worn-out race, and I shall go down alone into the dust, out of this world of men and women, without ever knowing the fellowship of the one or the love of the other.  I will not die with a lie rattling in my throat.  If another state of being has anything worse in store for me, I have had a long apprenticeship to give me strength that I may bear it.  I don’t believe it, Sir!  I have too much faith for that.  God has not left me wholly without comfort, even here.  I love this old place where I was born;—­the heart of the world beats under the three hills of Boston, Sir!  I love this great land, with so many tall men in it, and so many good, noble women.—­His eyes turned to the silent figure by his pillow.—­I have learned to accept meekly what has been allotted to me, but I cannot honestly say that I think my sin has been greater than my suffering.  I bear the ignorance and the evil-doing of whole generations in my single person.  I never drew a breath of air nor took a step that was not a punishment for another’s fault.  I may have had many wrong thoughts, but I cannot have done many wrong deeds,—­for my cage has been a narrow one, and I have paced it alone.  I have looked through the bars and seen the great world of men busy and happy, but I had no part in their doings.  I have known what it was to dream of the great passions; but since my mother kissed me before she died, no woman’s lips have pressed my cheek,—­nor ever will.