"Yes indeed—and it puzzles me. That year here ought to have carried him through his studies."
"Why what can he do?—not teach school now,—he's no time for it."
"He can give lessons—and does. Makes the time, I suppose. You know he has learned about everything but Theology. Olyphant was telling me about it the other day."
"What a strange thing!" said the other musingly, "such a family, so swept overboard! What a house that was! You remember his mother, George?"
"I should think so!—and the way Endecott used to sing to her every night, no matter who was there."
"Yes," said the doctor's confrère—"and come to her to be kissed afterwards. I should have laughed at any other man—but it set well on him. So did her diamond ring in his hair, which she was so fond of handling. How did he make out to live when she died?"
"I don't know—" said George with a half drawn breath—a little reverently too: "I suppose he could tell you. But all that first year nobody saw him—unless somebody in need or sorrow: they could always find him. He looked as if he had taken leave of the world—except to work for it."
"How courted he used to be!"—said the other—"how petted—not spoiled, strange to say. Do you suppose he'll ever marry, George? will he ever find any one to suit his notions? He's had enough to choose from already—in Europe and here. What do they say of him off yonder—where he is now?"
"They say he's—rock crystal,—because ice will melt," said George. "So
I suppose his notions are as high as ever."
"You used to admire Miss Linden, if I remember," said his friend. "What a ring that was!—I wonder if she's got it. George—I sha'n't walk any further in this mud—turn about."