fermenting thought and the electric life of the great world into his lonely study; but these things just about him were getting strong hold on him, and most of all the fortunes of this beautiful young woman.  How strange!  For a whole generation he had lived in no nearer relation to his fellow-creatures than that of a half-fossilized teacher; and all at once he found himself face to face with the very most intense form of life, the counsellor of threatened innocence, the champion of imperilled loveliness.  What business was it of his? growled the lower nature, of which he had said in “Thoughts on the Universe,”—­“Every man leads or is led by something that goes on four legs.”

Then he remembered the grand line of the African freedman, that makes all human interests everybody’s business, and had a sudden sense of dilatation and evolution, as it were, in all his dimensions, as if he were a head taller, and a foot bigger round the chest, and took in an extra gallon of air at every breath, Then—­you who have written a book that holds your heart-leaves between its pages will understand the movement—­he took down “Thoughts on the Universe” for a refreshing draught from his own wellspring.  He opened as chance ordered it, and his eyes fell on the following passage: 

“The true American formula was well phrased by the late Samuel Patch, the Western Empedocles, ‘Some things can be done as well as others.’  A homely utterance, but it has virtue to overthrow all dynasties and hierarchies.  These were all built up on the Old-World dogma that some things can not be done as well as others.”

“There, now!” he said, talking to himself in his usual way, “is n’t that good?  It always seems to me that I find something to the point when I open that book.  ‘Some things can be done as well as others,’ can they?  Suppose I should try what I can do by visiting Miss Myrtle Hazard?  I think I may say I am old and incombustible enough to be trusted.  She does not seem to be a safe neighbor to very inflammable bodies?”

Myrtle was sitting in the room long known as the Study, or the Library, when Master Byles Gridley called at The Poplars to see her.  Miss Cynthia, who received him, led him to this apartment and left him alone with Myrtle.  She welcomed him very cordially, but colored as she did so,—­his visit was a surprise.  She was at work on a piece of embroidery.  Her first instinctive movement was to thrust it out of sight with the thought of concealment; but she checked this, and before the blush of detection had reached her cheek, the blush of ingenuous shame for her weakness had caught and passed it, and was in full possession.  She sat with her worsted pattern held bravely in sight, and her cheek as bright as its liveliest crimson.

“Miss Cynthia has let me in upon you,” he said, “or I should not have ventured to disturb you in this way.  A work of art, is it, Miss Myrtle Hazard?”

“Only a pair of slippers, Mr. Gridley,—­for my pastor.”