him should be
worked over again. When there is no new ore to be dug, the old refuse
heaps are looked over for what may still be found in them. The landlord
of the Anchor Tavern, now the head of the boarding-house, talked about
Maurice, as everybody in the village did at one time or another. He had
not much to say, but he added a fact or two.

The young gentleman was good pay,--so they all said. Sometimes he paid
in gold; sometimes in fresh bills, just out of the bank. He trusted his
man, Mr. Paul, with the money to pay his bills. He knew something about
horses; he showed that by the way he handled that colt,--the one that
threw the hostler and broke his collar-bone. "Mr. Paul come down to the
stable. 'Let me see that cult you all 'fraid of,' says he. 'My master,
he ride any hoss,' says Paul. 'You saddle him,' says be; and so they
did, and Paul, he led that colt--the kickinest and ugliest young beast
you ever see in your life--up to the place where his master, as he calls
him, and he lives. What does that Kirkwood do but clap on a couple of
long spurs and jump on to that colt's back, and off the beast goes, tail
up, heels flying, standing up on end, trying all sorts of capers, and at
last going it full run for a couple of miles, till he'd got about enough
of it. That colt went off as ferce as a wild-cat, and come back as quiet
as a cosset lamb. A man that pays his bills reg'lar, in good money, and
knows how to handle a hoss is three quarters of a gentleman, if he is n't
a whole one,--and most likely he is a whole one."

So spake the patriarch of the Anchor Tavern. His wife had already given
her favorable opinion of her former guest. She now added something to
her description as a sequel to her husband's remarks.

"I call him," she said, "about as likely a young gentleman as ever I
clapped my eyes on. He is rather slighter than I like to see a young man
of his age; if he was my sun, I should like to see him a little more
fleshy. I don't believe he weighs more than a hundred and thirty or
forty pounds. Did y' ever look at those eyes of his, M'randy? Just as
blue as succory flowers. I do like those light-complected young fellows,
with their fresh cheeks and their curly hair; somehow, curly hair doos
set off anybody's face. He is n't any foreigner, for all that he talks
Italian with that Mr. Paul that's his help. He looks just like our kind
of folks, the college kind, that's brought up among books, and is
handling 'em, and