“Besides,” he continued, “a man must have some object in life for his sympathies to be employed on.  I have neither wife nor child; and no near relations to think of—­I have nothing but my routine of business in the day, and my books here by my lonely fireside, at night.  Our life is not much; but it was made for a little more than this.  My former pupil at North Villa is my pupil no longer.  I can’t help feeling that it would be an object in existence for me to occupy myself with her happiness and yours; to have two young people, in the heyday of youth and first love, looking towards me occasionally for the promotion of some of their pleasures—­no matter how trifling.  All this will seem odd and incomprehensible to you. If you were of my age, Sir, and in my position, you would understand it.”

Was it possible that he could speak thus, without his voice faltering, or his eye softening in the slightest degree?  Yes:  I looked at him and listened to him intently; but here was not the faintest change in his face or his tones—­there was nothing to show outwardly whether he felt what he said, or whether he did not.  His words had painted such a picture of forlornness on my mind, that I had mechanically half raised my hand to take his, while he was addressing me; but the sight of him when he ceased, checked the impulse almost as soon as it was formed.  He did not appear to have noticed either my involuntary gesture, or its immediate repression; and went on speaking.

“I have said perhaps more than I ought,” he resumed.  “If I have not succeeded in making you understand my explanation as I could wish, we will change the subject, and not return to it again, until you have known me for a much longer time.”

“On no account change the subject, Mr. Mannion,” I said; unwilling to let it be implied that I would not put trust in him.  “I am deeply sensible of the kindness of your offer, and the interest you take in Margaret and me.  We shall both, I am sure, accept your good offices—­”

I stopped.  The storm had decreased a little in violence:  but my attention was now struck by the wind, which had risen as the thunder and rain had partially lulled.  How drearily it was moaning down the street!  It seemed, at that moment, to be wailing over me; to be wailing over him; to be wailing over all mortal things!  The strange sensations I then felt, moved me to listen in silence; but I checked them, and spoke again.

“If I have not answered you as I should,” I continued, “you must attribute it partly to the storm, which I confess rather discomposes my ideas; and partly to a little surprise—­a very foolish surprise, I own—­that you should still be able to feel so strong a sympathy with interests which are generally only considered of importance to the young.”

“It is only in their sympathies, that men of my years can, and do, live their youth over again,” he said.  “You may be surprised to hear a tradesman’s clerk talk in this manner; but I was not always what I am now.  I have gathered knowledge, and suffered in the gathering.  I have grown old before my time—­my forty years are like the fifty of other men—­”