alarmed Josephine
Harris. She could not see where and in what feature lay the change, any
more than she could realize what could have been powerful enough to
produce it. Tom Leslie may have been quite as much alarmed; but his
older years and wider experience, conjoined with the feelings with which
he had come to that house, made it impossible that he should be so much
puzzled. He saw at once that the marked change was in the _eyes_. In
their depths (he had before remarked them, that day, as indicating a
nature a little weak, purposeless and not prone to self-examination)--in
their depths, clear enough now, there lay a dark, sombre, but not
unpleasing shadow, such as only shows itself in eyes that have been
turned _inward_. We usually say of a man whose eyes show the same
expression: "That man has studied much," or, "he has suffered much," or,
"he is a _spiritualist_." By the latter expression, we mean that he
looks more or less beneath the surface of events that meet him in the
world--that he is more or less a student of the spiritual in mentality,
and of the supernatural in cause and effect. Such eyes do not stare,
they merely gaze. When they look at you, they look at something else
through you and behind you, of which you may or may not be a part.

Let it be said here, the occasion being a most inviting one for this
species of digression,--that the painter who can succeed in transferring
to canvas that expression of _seeing more than is presented to the
physical eye_, has achieved a triumph over great difficulties. Frequent
visitors to the old Dusseldorf Gallery, now so sadly disrupted and its
treasures scattered through twenty private galleries where they can only
be visible to the eyes of a favored few,--will remember two instances,
perhaps by the same painter, of the eye being thus made to reveal the
inner thought and a life beyond that passing at the moment. The first
and most notable is in the "Charles the Second fleeing from the Battle
of Worcester." The king and two nobles are in the immediate foreground,
in flight, while far away the sun is going down in a red glare behind
the smoke of battle, the lurid flames of the burning town, and the royal
standard just fluttering down from the battlements of a castle lost by
the royal arms at the very close of Cromwell's "crowning mercy." Through
the smoke of the middle distance can be dimly seen dusky forms in
flight, or in the last hopeless conflict. Each of the nobles