XIV

Miss Vincent’s startling discovery.

The sober-minded, sensible, well-instructed Dr. Butts was not a little exercised in mind by the demands made upon his knowledge by his young friend, and for the time being his pupil, Miss Lurida Vincent.

“I don’t wonder they called her The Terror,” he said to himself.  “She is enough to frighten anybody.  She has taken down old books from my shelves that I had almost forgotten the backs of, and as to the medical journals, I believe the girl could index them from memory.  She is in pursuit of some special point of knowledge, I feel sure, and I cannot doubt what direction she is working in, but her wonderful way of dealing with books amazes me.”

What marvels those “first scholars” in the classes of our great universities and colleges are, to be sure!  They are not, as a rule, the most distinguished of their class in the long struggle of life.  The chances are that “the field” will beat “the favorite” over the long race-course.  Others will develop a longer stride and more staying power.  But what fine gifts those “first scholars” have received from nature!  How dull we writers, famous or obscure, are in the acquisition of knowledge as compared with them!  To lead their classmates they must have quick apprehension, fine memories, thorough control of their mental faculties, strong will, power of concentration, facility of expression,—­a wonderful equipment of mental faculties.  I always want to take my hat off to the first scholar of his year.

Dr. Butts felt somewhat in the same way as he contemplated The Terror.  She surprised him so often with her knowledge that he was ready to receive her without astonishment when she burst in upon him one allay with a cry of triumph, “Eureka!  Eureka!”

“And what have you found, my dear?” said the doctor.

Lurida was flushed and panting with the excitement of her new discovery.

“I do believe that I have found the secret of our strange visitor’s dread of all human intercourse!”

The seasoned practitioner was not easily thrown off his balance.

“Wait a minute and get your breath,” said the doctor.  “Are you not a little overstating his peculiarity?  It is not quite so bad as that.  He keeps a man to serve him, he was civil with the people at the Old Tavern, he was affable enough, I understand, with the young fellow he pulled out of the water, or rescued somehow,—­I don’t believe be avoids the whole human race.  He does not look as if he hated them, so far as I have remarked his expression.  I passed a few words with him when his man was ailing, and found him polite enough.  No, I don’t believe it is much more than an extreme case of shyness, connected, perhaps, with some congenital or other personal repugnance to which has been given the name of an antipathy.”

Lurida could hardly keep still while the doctor was speaking.  When he finished, she began the account of her discovery: