ify
And the sure vision celebrate,
And worship greatness passing by--
Ourselves are great."
--JOHN DRINKWATER.

Mr. George Gwinne sprawled at his graceless ease along two chairs; he
held a long-stemmed brier-wood pipe between his bearded lips and
puffed thoughtfully. The pipestem was long of necessity; with a short
stem Mr. Gwinne had certainly set that beard alight. It was a
magnificent beard, such as you may not see in these degenerate days.
Nor did you see many such in those degenerate days, for that matter.
It was long and thick and wide and all that a beard should be; it
reached from his two big ears to below the fifth rib. It was silky and
wavy and curly, and--alas for poor human nature!--it was kempt and
kept--an Assyrian beard. Yet Mr. George Gwinne was, of all the sons of
man, unlikeliest to be the victim of vanity. His beard was a dusty red
brown, the thick poll of hair on his big square head was dusky red
brown, lightly sprinkled with frost, his big eyes were reddish brown;
and Argive Helen might have envied his brows, perfect brows in any
other setting; merely comic here--no, no, "tragic" is the word, since
all else about the man was coarse of grain and fiber, uncouth and
repulsive.

His hands were big and awkward, and they swung from arms
disproportionately long; his feet were big and flat, his body was big
and gross, he was deep-chested and round-shouldered, his neck was a
bull's neck, his ears were big and red, his head was big and coarse
and square, his face was gnarled where it was not forested, his
chance-seen lips were big and coarse, his nose was a monstrous beak,
his voice was a hoarse deep rumble. And somewhere behind that rough
husk dwelt a knightly soul, kindly and tender and sensitive--one of
that glorious company, "who plotted to be worthy of the world."

He had friends--yes, and they held him high--but seeming and report
held him pachyderm, and they trod upon his heart. Only to a few have
time and chance shown a glimpse of the sad and lonely spirit behind
those tired eyes--and they have walked softlier all their days for it.
This is not his story; but there will be a heavy reckoning when George
Gwinne's account goes to audit.

Mr. Gwinne's gaze rested benignantly on a sleeping man; a young and
smallish man, very different from Mr. Gwinne in every respect,
sprightly and debonair, even in sleep, with careless grace in ever