"Thanks. I—I know him and he would not have sanctioned it—weally—he would have ceased his attentions at once. It is a vewy unhappy situation—he was not advised until she had put her wesolution into effect. She is a vewy amiable young lady, but she has too much pwide to seek a wecconciliation with her pawents. I endeavahed to pwesent the mattah to her in the stwongest light, but she would not be moved."
"She seemed to be very favorably impressed with the Deacon, Mr. Dide," I ventured to insinuate.
"Aw, y-a-s, you are wight; the Deacon is, I think, a vewy estimable gentleman."
"But suppose he should not be serious, Mr. Dide—the Deacon is a stranger to you, and he might be trifling."
"Twifling! impossible! I cannot think so of him."
"Ah! Deacon! Deacon!" I thought, "you called this gentleman, contemptuously, 'a dude'—how do you compare with him?" and confessed to myself that the verdict was not in favor of my friend. I had no question of the Deacon's integrity. I was looking only for one of the elements that go to make up a gentleman, and found that Mr. Dide was better endowed with unselfishness.
The Major and Joshua coming in, the subject between Mr. Dide and myself was dropped. That night when my friend and I were covered with our blankets, looking out at the bright lamps and ready to be wooed into unconsciousness by the river's melody, he said to me:
"I have changed my mind concerning our new friend. I thought he would be a bore, at least, but I have discovered him to be a gentleman."
"So have I." But I did not deem it necessary to explain to him why I had reached the same conclusion.