yourself—if, indeed, as I doubt not, you are the Allen
Fenwick to whom I owe no small obligation.
You were a medical student at Edinburgh in
the year * * *?”

“Yes.”

“So! At that time there was also at Edinburgh
a young man, named Richard Strahan. He
lodged in a fourth flat in the Old Town.”

“I remember him very well.”

"And you remember, also, that a fire broke
out at night in the house in which he lodged;
that when it was discovered, there seemed no
hope of saving him. The flames wrapt the lower
part of the house; the staircase had given way.
A boy, scarcely so old as himself, was the only
human being in the crowd who dared to scale
the ladder, that even then scarcely reached the
windows from which the smoke rolled in
volumes; that boy penetrated into the room—found
the inmate almost insensible—rallied, supported,
dragged him to the window—got him on the
ladder—saved his life then—and his life later, by
nursing with a woman’s tenderness, through the
fever caused by terror and excitement, the fellow-
creature he had rescued by a man’s daring. The
name of that gallant student was Allen Fenwick,
and Richard Strahan is my nearest living
relation. Are we friends now?”

I answered confusedly. I had almost
forgotten the circumstance referred to. Richard
Strahan had not been one of my more intimate
companions; and I had never seen nor heard of
him since leaving college. I inquired what had
become of him.

“He is at the Scotch bar,” said Sir Philip,
“and of course without practice. I understand
that he has fair average abilities, but no
application. If I am rightly informed, he is, however,
a thoroughly honourable, upright man, and of an
affectionate and grateful disposition.”

“I can answer for all you have said in his
praise. He had the qualities you name too deeply
rooted in youth to have lost them now.”

Sir Philip remained for some moments in a
musing silence. And I took advantage of that
silence to examine him with more minute
attention than I had done before, much as the first
sight of him had struck me.

He was somewhat below the common height.
So delicately formed that one might call him rather
fragile than slight. But in his carriage and air
there was remarkable dignity. His countenance
was at direct variance with his figure. For as
delicacy was the attribute of the last, so power was
unmistakably the characteristic of the first. He
looked fully the age his steward had ascribed to
him—about forty-eight; at a superficial glance,
more; for his hair was prematurely white—not
grey, but white as snow. But his eyebrows
were still jet black, and his eyes, equally dark,
were serenely bright. His forehead was
magnificent; lofty, and spacious, and with only one
slight wrinkle between the brows. His complexion
was sunburnt, showing no sign of weak
health. The outline of his lips was that which
I have often remarked in men accustomed to
great dangers, and contracting in such dangers
the habit of self-reliance; firm and quiet,
compressed without an effort. And the power of
this very noble countenance was not intimidating,
not aggressive; it was mild—it was benignant.
A man oppressed by some formidable tyranny,
and despairing to find a protector, would, on
seeing that face, have said, “Here is one who
can protect me, and who will!”

Sir Philip was the first to break the silence.

“I have so many relations scattered over
England, that fortunately not one of them can
venture to calculate on my property if I die
childless, and therefore not one of them can feel
himself injured when, a few weeks hence, he shall
read in the newspapers that Philip Derval is
married. But for Richard Strahan, at least,
though I never saw him, I must do something
before the newspapers make that announcement.
His sister was very dear to me.”

“Your neighbours, Sir Philip, will rejoice
at your marriage, since, I presume, it may
induce you to settle amongst them at Derval
Court.”

“At Derval Court! No! I shall not settle
there.” Again he paused a moment or so, and
then went on. “I have long lived a wandering
life, and in it learned much that the wisdom of
cities cannot teach. I return to my native land
with a profound conviction that the happiest life is
the life most in common with all. I have gone out
of my way to do what I deemed good, and to avert
or mitigate what appeared to me evil. I pause
now and ask myself, whether the most virtuous
existence be not that in which virtue flows
spontaneously from the springs of quiet every-day
action;—when a man does good without
restlessly seeking it, does good unconsciously, simply
because he is good and he lives? Better, perhaps,
for me, if I had thought so long ago! And now
I come back to England with the intention of
marrying, late in life though it be, and with such
hopes of happiness as any matter-of-fact man may
form. But my home will not be at Derval Court.
I shall reside either in London or its immediate
neighbourhood, and seek to gather round me
minds by which I can correct, if I cannot
confide, the knowledge I myself have acquired.”

“Nay, if as I have accidentally heard, you are
fond of scientific pursuits, I cannot wonder that,
after so Iong an absence from England, you
should feel interest in learning what new
discoveries have been made, what new ideas are
unfolding the germs of discoveries yet to be. But,
pardon me, if in answer to your concluding
remark, I venture to say that no man can hope to
correct any error in his own knowledge, unless
he has the courage to confide the error to those
who can correct. La Place has said, ‘Tout se
tient dans la chaíne immense des vérités;’ and
the mistake we make in some science we have
specially cultivated is often only to be seen by
the light of a separate science as specially
cultivated by another. Thus, in the investigation of