"Really! upon my word! Ah! Mr. Morton was a friend to me, sir—a very kind friend."
And, in the simplicity of his heart, Mr. Jacobs glided up to the student, and blandly accosted him.
"How do you do, young gentleman? I knew your worthy father. I knew him well. I have often sat at his hospitable board on anniversary week."
Thus addressed, Vassall Morton looked up from his book,—it was Froissart's Chronicle,—inclined his head in acknowledgment, and waited to hear more.
"Ahem!" coughed Mr. Jacobs, a little embarrassed: "your father was a most worthy and estimable gentleman: a true friend of the feeble and destitute. Ahem!—what class are you in, Mr. Morton?"
"The junior class," said the young man, a suppressed smile flickering at the corner of his mouth.
"Ahem! I hope, sir, that, like your father, you will long live to be an honor to your native town."
"Thank you, sir."
"I wish you good morning."
"Good morning, sir," said Morton, divided between an inclination to smile at the odd, humble little figure before him, and an unwillingness to wound the other's feelings.