Such was this singular man, in his more
superficial aspects. What nobler qualities he
might possess below the surface, no one had
ever discovered. Mr. Vanstone, it is true,
stoutly asserted that "Mr. Clare's worst side
was his outside"—but, in this expression of
opinion, he stood alone among his neighbours.
The association between these two widely-
dissimilar men had lasted for many years, and
was almost close enough to be called a friendship.
They had acquired a habit of meeting to
smoke together on certain evenings in the week,
in the cynic-philosopher's study, and of there
disputing on every imaginable subject—Mr.
Vanstone flourishing the stout cudgels of
assertion, and Mr. Clare meeting him with the
keen edged-tools of sophistry. They generally
quarrelled at night, and met on the neutral
ground of the shrubbery to be reconciled together
the next morning. The bond of intercourse
thus curiously established between them, was
strengthened on Mr. Vanstone's side by a
hearty interest in his neighbour's three sons—
an interest by which those sons benefited all the
more importantly, seeing that one of the
prejudices which their father had outlived, was a
prejudice in favour of his own children.

"I look at those boys," the philosopher was
accustomed to say, "with a perfectly impartial
eye; I dismiss the unimportant accident of
their birth from all consideration; and I find
them below the average in every respect. The
only excuse which a poor gentleman has for
presuming to exist in the nineteenth century, is
the excuse of extraordinary ability. My boys
have been addle-headed from infancy. If I had
any capital to give them, I should make Frank
a butcher, Cecil a baker, and Arthur a grocer—
those being the only human vocations I know of
which are certain to be always in request. As
it is, I have no money to help them with; and
they have no brains to help themselves. They
appear to me to be three human superfluities in
dirty jackets and noisy boots; and, unless they
clear themselves off the community by running
away, I don't myself profess to see what is to be
done with them."

Fortunately for the boys, Mr. Vanstone's
views were still fast imprisoned in the ordinary
prejudices. At his intercession, and through
his influence, Frank, Cecil, and Arthur were
received on the foundation of a well-reputed
grammar-school. In holiday-time they were
mercifully allowed the run of Mr. Vanstone's
paddock; and were humanised and refined by
association, in-doors, with Mrs. Vanstone and
her daughters. On these occasions, Mr. Clare
used sometimes to walk across from his cottage
(in his dressing-gown and slippers), and look at
the boys disparagingly, through the window or
over the fence, as if they were three wild
animals whom his neighbour was attempting to
tame. "You and your wife are excellent
people," he used to say to Mr. Vanstone. "I
respect your honest prejudices in favour of
these boys of mine with all my heart. But you
are so wrong about them—you are indeed! I
wish to give no offence; I speak quite impartially—
but mark my words, Vanstone: they'll
all three turn out ill, in spite of everything you
can do for them."

In later years, when Frank had reached the
age of seventeen, the same curious shifting of
the relative positions of parent and friend
between the two neighbours, was exemplified more
absurdly than ever. A civil engineer in the
north of England, who owed certain obligations
to Mr. Vanstone, expressed his willingness to
take Frank under superintendence, on terms of
the most favourable kind. When this proposal
was received, Mr. Clare, as usual, first shifted
his own character as Frank's father on Mr.
Vanstone's shoulders—and then moderated his
neighbour's parental enthusiasm from the point
of view of an impartial spectator.

"It's the finest chance for Frank that could
possibly have happened," cried Mr, Vanstone,
in a glow of fatherly enthusiasm.

"My good fellow, he won't take it," retorted
Mr. Clare, with the icy composure of a
disinterested friend.

"But he shall take it," persisted Mr.
Vanstone.

"Say he shall have a mathematical head,"
rejoined Mr. Clare; "say he shall possess
industry, ambition, and firmness of purpose.
Pooh! pooh! you don't look at him with my
impartial eyes. I say, No mathematics, no
industry, no ambition, no firmness of purpose.
Frank is a compound of negatives—and there
they are."

"Hang your negatives!" shouted Mr. Vanstone.
"I don't care a rush for negatives, or
affirmatives either. Frank shall have this splendid
chance; and I'll lay you any wager you like he
makes the best of it."

"I am not rich enough to lay wagers usually,"
replied Mr. Clare; "but I think I have got a
guinea about the house somewhere; and I'll lay
you that guinea Frank comes back on our hands
like a bad shilling."

"Done!" said Mr. Vanstone. "No: stop a
minute! I won't do the lad's character the
injustice of backing it at even money. I'll lay
you five to one Frank turns up trumps in this
business! You ought to be ashamed of yourself
for talking of him as you do. What sort of
hocus-pocus you bring it about by, I don't
pretend to know; but you always end in making
me take his part, as if I was his father instead
of you. Ah, yes! give you time, and you'll
defend yourself. I won't give you time; I
won't have any of your special-pleading. Black's
white, according to you. I don't care: it's
black, for all that. You may talk nineteen to
the dozen—I shall write to my friend and say
Yes, in Frank's interests, by to-day's post."

Such were the circumstances under which
Mr. Francis Clare departed for the north of
England, at the age of seventeen, to start in life as
a civil engineer.

From time to time, Mr. Vanstone's friend
communicated with him on the subject of the
new pupil. Frank was praised, as a quiet,