Paul could scarcely believe his ears. Had he heard Mr. Weevil aright?
"He seems to look forward eagerly to your visits, more than to the visits of anybody"—a sigh, so slight as to be almost imperceptible, escaped the master's lips. "It would be cruel to debar the poor little fellow from any pleasure we can give him. Therefore, Percival, I hope you will understand that you are quite at liberty to visit him when you feel inclined."
"It is very kind of you, sir, and I am deeply grateful."
"You will be careful, of course, not to make your visits too long, or not to unduly excite him."
"Oh, yes, sir; I'll be careful of that."
Paul rose to go, thinking the interview at an end. As he did so, the master placed a hand upon his shoulder.
"You have been very good to the boy—God will reward you! The fear sometimes oppresses me that he will not get over this illness."
The half closed eyes were blinking in a curious fashion. Indeed, Paul saw what was suspiciously like a tear slowly making its way down the cheek of the master. His emotion was no longer a mystery to Paul. Hibbert's revelation had thrown a light upon it. He now knew that the man whom he had regarded as without emotion—as one wrapped up completely in his equations and scientific formulæ—had yet a deeply human side. Hibbert was the son of his dead sister, and he loved him—loved him with a love that was a hundred times greater than that which the boy's own father had ever bestowed on him. And Paul learnt a lesson in that brief interview which he never forgot—that lying deep down in the hearts of most men, sometimes overladen by rust, sometimes in the midst of decay, may frequently be found a vein of purest gold.
"Don't say that, sir. He was looking better the last time I saw him. He will pull round as soon as he can get out a bit."
"I hope your words will come true, Percival; but he's so frail. If he were only strong like you—but there, it's useless talking. It must be as God wills." Then his voice changed to its old frigid tone.