“Would he be the better or the worse man if it did not, uncle?” I asked.
“You must not get me into a metaphysical discussion, little one,” he answered. “We have something more important on our hands. I want you to note that, when a person is happy, he may look lovable; whereas, things going as he does not like, another, and very unfinished phase of his character may appear.”
“Surely everybody must know that, uncle!”
“Then you can hardly expect me to be confident that your new friend would appear as lovable if he were unhappy!”
“I have seen you, uncle, look as if nothing would ever make you smile again; but I knew you loved me all the time.”
“Did you, my darling? Then you were right. I dare not require of any man that he should be as good-tempered in trouble as out of it—though he must come to that at last; but a man must be just, whatever mood he is in.”
“That is what I always knew you to be, uncle! I never waited for a change in your looks, to tell you anything I wanted to tell you.—I know you, uncle!” I added, with a glow of still triumph.
“Thank you, little one!” he returned, half playfully, yet gravely. “All I want to say comes to this,” he resumed after a pause, “that when a man is in love, you see only the best of him, or something better than he really is. Much good may be in a man, for God made him, and the man yet not be good, for he has done nothing, since his making, to make himself. Before you can say you know a man, you must have seen him in a few at least of his opposite moods. Therefore you cannot wonder that I should desire a fuller assurance of this young man, than your testimony, founded on an acquaintance of three or four days, can give me.”
“Let me tell you, then, something that happened to-day,” I answered. “When first I asked him to come with me this morning, it was a temptation to him of course, not knowing when we might see each other again; but he hadn't his own horse, and said it would be an impertinence to ride yours.”
“I hope you did not come alone!”