wers were given in a tone and manner far removed from
bitterness on the one side, or from indifference on the other. Ozias
Midwinter at twenty spoke of his life as Ozias Midwinter at seventy
might have spoken with a long weariness of years on him which he had
learned to bear patiently.

Two circumstances pleaded strongly against the distrust with which, in
sheer perplexity of mind, Mr. Brock blindly regarded him. He had written
to a savings-bank in a distant part of England, had drawn his money, and
had paid the doctor and the landlord. A man of vulgar mind, after acting
in this manner, would have treated his obligations lightly when he
had settled his bills. Ozias Midwinter spoke of his obligations--and
especially of his obligation to Allan--with a fervor of thankfulness
which it was not surprising only, but absolutely painful to witness. He
showed a horrible sincerity of astonishment at having been treated
with common Christian kindness in a Christian land. He spoke of Allan's
having become answerable for all the expenses of sheltering, nursing,
and curing him, with a savage rapture of gratitude and surprise which
burst out of him like a flash of lightning. "So help me God!" cried the
castaway usher, "I never met with the like of him: I never heard of the
like of him before!" In the next instant, the one glimpse of light which
the man had let in on his own passionate nature was quenched again
in darkness. His wandering eyes, returning to their old trick, looked
uneasily away from Mr. Brock, and his voice dropped back once more into
its unnatural steadiness and quietness of tone. "I beg your pardon,
sir," he said. "I have been used to be hunted, and cheated, and starved.
Everything else comes strange to me." Half attracted by the man, half
repelled by him, Mr. Brock, on rising to take leave, impulsively offered
his hand, and then, with a sudden misgiving, confusedly drew it back
again. "You meant that kindly, sir," said Ozias Midwinter, with his own
hands crossed resolutely behind him. "I don't complain of your thinking
better of it. A man who can't give a proper account of himself is not a
man for a gentleman in your position to take by the hand."

Mr. Brock left the inn thoroughly puzzled. Before returning to Mrs.
Armadale he sent for her son. The chances were that the guard had been
off the stranger's tongue when he spoke to Allan, and with Allan's
frankness there was no fear of his concealing anything that had pass