And a strange being was Antonio on the whole. In Scotland he would have been called a “warlock,” which is the male for a witch, you know.
But although I have tried to place him before your mind’s eye, I must not have you to despise him. There is good and bad in every one of us, and, in all probability, this story will prove that the good predominated in the heart of Antonio. But we shall see. I do but present him to you as I myself knew him.
When Barclay came trotting along towards the place where Antonio sat, and finally brought up alongside him, the little man took his pipe from his mouth and smiled.
“I’m glad,” he said, “right glad, dearie; and I believe you are good here and here.”
He touched first his heart and then his head.
“Oh, I know,” he continued. “Been fifty years in this world, and know the good from the bad. Sit you down, dearie.”
Barclay sat down, and Antonio smoked some time in silence.
“Some day,” he said at length, “I’ll tell you bits from the story of my life. Oh, not all. It is too, too long. Meanwhile, dearie, we shall have nothing to do, for a year at least, but study and enjoy ourselves. Hullo! what is that?”
“That,” said Barclay, laughing, “is my cat. She follows me everywhere. She is with me night and day. Poor Muffie!”
A great tabby she-cat approached to where Barclay lay on the grass. She purred aloud and rubbed her bonnie face, which was vandyked with white, against the boy’s arm.