ease.  He keeps you from being at ease.  You feel it specially in his house.  He is too cordial, too full of effort to make your visit pleasant to you.  You like him, yet you don’t feel altogether at home with him.  You are glad when he leaves you to his more composed wife.  You never knew or heard of his saying or doing anything wrong or even unbecoming.  You look upon him as a peculiar sort of man—­well, somehow—­but!  He is at the bar defending that woman, who sits by him, dressed in mourning—­some chancery case.  Or it is a criminal case, and it is the widow’s only son that Leland is defending.  If you had been in his office for the last week, you would have acknowledged that he has studied the case, has prepared himself on it as thoroughly as a man can.  He is an ambitious man.  He intensely desires to make for himself a fortune and a position.  His address to the judge, or to the jury, as the case may be, is a good one.  Yet, somehow, he does not convince.  He himself is carried away by his own earnestness, but he does not carry away with him his hearers.  His remarks are interesting.  People listen to him from first to last closely.  Yet his arguing does not, somehow, convince.  His pathos does not, somehow, melt.  He is the sort of man that people think of for the Legislature.  No man ever thinks of him in connexion with the Supreme Bench or Senate.

Wherein lies the defect?  Arthur Leland is well read, a gentleman of spotless character, of earnest application, of popular manners.  Why is not this man a man of more weight, power, standing?  Why, you answer, the man is just what he is.  He fills just the position up to which his force of mind raises him.  Did he have more talent, he would be more.  No, sir.  Every acquaintance he has known, he himself knows, that he is capable of being much more than he is—­somehow, somehow he does not attain to it!  It is this singular impression Leland makes upon you.  It is this singular, uneasy, unsatisfied feeling he himself is preyed upon by.  “He might be, but he is not,” say his neighbours.  “I am not, yet I might be,” worries him as an incessant and eternal truth.

It broke upon him like a revelation.

He was at work one fine morning in his garden, in a square in which young watermelon plants of a choice kind were just springing.  Willie was there with him, just emerged fresh for fun from the waters of sleep.  Very anxious to be as near as possible to his father, who was always his only playmate, Willie had strayed from the walk in which his father had seated him, and stood beside his father.  With a quick, passionate motion, Leland seized his child, and placed him violently back in the walk, with a harsh threat.  The child whimpered for a while, and soon forgetting himself, came to his father again over the tender plants.  This time Leland seized him still more violently, seated him roughly in the walk, and, with harsh threats, struck him upon his plump red cheek.  Willie burst into tears, and