hief.

"Hold on, Arthur, my boy," he said, attempting to mask his anxiety with
facetious utterance. "This is too much all at once for yours truly. Give
me a chance to get my nerve. You know I didn't want to come, an' I guess
your fam'ly ain't hankerin' to see me neither."

"That's all right," was the reassuring answer. "You mustn't be
frightened at us. We're just homely people--Hello, there's a letter for
me."

He stepped back to the table, tore open the envelope, and began to read,
giving the stranger an opportunity to recover himself. And the stranger
understood and appreciated. His was the gift of sympathy, understanding;
and beneath his alarmed exterior that sympathetic process went on. He
mopped his forehead dry and glanced about him with a controlled face,
though in the eyes there was an expression such as wild animals betray
when they fear the trap. He was surrounded by the unknown, apprehensive
of what might happen, ignorant of what he should do, aware that he walked
and bore himself awkwardly, fearful that every attribute and power of him
was similarly afflicted. He was keenly sensitive, hopelessly
self-conscious, and the amused glance that the other stole privily at him
over the top of the letter burned into him like a dagger-thrust. He saw
the glance, but he gave no sign, for among the things he had learned was
discipline. Also, that dagger-thrust went to his pride. He cursed
himself for having come, and at the same time resolved that, happen what
would, having come, he would carry it through. The lines of his face
hardened, and into his eyes came a fighting light. He looked about more
unconcernedly, sharply observant, every detail of the pretty interior
registering itself on his brain. His eyes were wide apart; nothing in
their field of vision escaped; and as they drank in the beauty before
them the fighting light died out and a warm glow took its place. He was
responsive to beauty, and here was cause to respond.

An oil painting caught and held him. A heavy surf thundered and burst
over an outjutting rock; lowering storm-clouds covered the sky; and,
outside the line of surf, a pilot-schooner, close-hauled, heeled over
till every detail of her deck was visible, was surging along against a
stormy sunset sky. There was beauty, and it drew him irresistibly. He
forgot his awkward walk and came closer to the painting, very close. The
beauty faded out of the canvas. His face expressed his