ned, and Mr. Horace Bellingham beamed upon the assembled
party. Ay, but he was a sight to do good to the souls of the hungry and
thirsty, and of the poor, and in misery!

He requires description, not that any pen can describe him, but no one
ever saw him who did not immediately wish to try. He was short,
decidedly; but a broad deep chest and long powerful arms had given him
many an advantage over taller adversaries in strange barbarous lands. He
was perfectly bald, but that must have been because Nature had not the
heart to cover such a wonderful cranium from the admiring gaze of
phrenologists. A sweeping moustache and a long imperial of snowy white
sat well on the ruddy tan of his complexion, and gave him an air at once
martial and diplomatic. He was dressed in the most perfect of London
clothes, and there were superb diamonds in his shirt, while a priceless
sapphire sparkled, in a plain gold setting, on his broad, brown hand. He
is the only man of his time who can wear precious stones without
vulgarity. He moves like a king and has the air of the old school in
every gesture. His dark eyes are brighter than his diamonds, and his
look, for all his white beard and seventy years, is as young and fresh
as the rose he wears in his coat.

There are some people who turn gray, but who do not grow hoary, whose
faces are furrowed but not wrinkled, whose hearts are sore wounded in
many places, but are not dead. There is a youth that bids defiance to
age, and there is a kindness which laughs at the world's rough usage.
These are they who have returned good for evil, not having learned it as
a lesson of righteousness, but because they have no evil in them to
return upon others. Whom the gods love die young, and they die young
because they never grow old. The poet, who at the verge of death said
this, said it of, and to, this very man.

The Duke went through the introductions, first to the Countess, then to
Miss Skeat, then to his sister, and last of all to Claudius, who had
been intently watching the newcomer. Mr. Bellingham paused before
Claudius, and looked up in a way peculiarly his own, without raising his
head. He had of course heard in New York of the strange fortune that had
befallen Claudius on the death of the well-known Mr. Lindstrand, and now
he stood a minute trying to take the measure of the individual before
him, not in the least overcome by the physical proportions of the outer
man, but struck by the intellectual f