ce as she stepped forward; nay, if
he mistook not, there came a gentle warmth to her cheek, and the
momentary downward glance was as graceful and modest as in a youthful
bride. Never had Barfoot approached a woman with more finished
courtesy, the sincere expression of his feeling. The blind sister he
regarded in like spirit; his voice touched its softest note as he held
her hand for a moment and replied to her pleasant words.

No undue indication of poverty disturbed him. He saw that the house had
been improved in many ways since Mrs. Micklethwaite had taken
possession of it; pictures, ornaments, pieces of furniture were added,
all in simple taste, but serving to heighten the effect of refined
comfort. Where the average woman would have displayed pretentious
emptiness, Mrs. Micklethwaite had made a home which in its way was
beautiful. The dinner, which she herself had cooked, and which she
assisted in serving, aimed at being no more than a simple; decorous
meal, but the guest unfeignedly enjoyed it; even the vegetables and the
bread seemed to him to have a daintier flavour than at many a rich
table. He could not help noticing and admiring the skill with which
Miss Wheatley ate without seeing what was before her; had he not known
her misfortune, he would hardly have become aware of it by any
peculiarity as she sat opposite to him.

The mathematician had learnt to sit upon a chair like ordinary mortals.
For the first week or two it must have cost him severe restraint; now
he betrayed no temptation to roll and jerk and twist himself. When the
ladies retired, he reached from the sideboard a box which Barfoot
viewed with uneasiness.

'Do you smoke here--in this room?'

'Oh, why not?'

Everard glanced at the pretty curtains before the windows.

'No, my boy, you do _not_ smoke here. And, in fact, I like your claret;
I won't spoil the flavour of it.'

'As you please; but I think Fanny will be distressed.'

'You shall say that I have abandoned the weed.'

Emotions were at conflict in Micklethwaite's mind, but finally he
beamed with gratitude.

'Barfoot'--he bent forward and touched his friend's arm--'there are
angels walking the earth in this our day. Science hasn't abolished
them, my dear fellow, and I don't think it ever will.'

'It falls to the lot of but few men to encounter them, and of fewer
still to entertain them permanently in a cottage at South Tottenham.'

'You are right.' Micklethwaite laughed in a new