well retreated up his forehead, was of the same close-woven pepper-and-salt mixture. His eyes were wells of ink when the light fell into them,—sad, kind eyes, that gave his face a look of patient service long and toilsomely but lovingly bestowed. It is a look telling of kindness that has endured and triumphed—a look of submission in which suffering has once burned but has consumed itself. I have never seen it except in the eyes of certain old negroes. The only colorable imitation is to be found in the eyes of my setter pup when he crouches at my feet and beseeches kindness after a punishment.
In bearing, as I have intimated, Clem was impressive. He was low-toned, easy of manner, with a flawless aplomb. As he served me those mornings in late summer, wearing a dress-coat of broadcloth, a choice relic of his splendid past, it was not difficult to see that he had been the associate of gentlemen.
As I ate of his cooking on a fair Sunday, I marvelled gratefully at the slender thread of chance that had drawn him to be my stay. Alone in that little house, with no one to make it a home for me, Clem was the barrier between me and the fare of the City Hotel. Apparently without suggestion from me he had taken me for his own to tend and watch over. And the marvel was assuredly not diminished by the circumstance that I was beholden to Potts for this black comfort.
Events were in train which were to intensify a thousand fold my amazement at the seeming inconse-
