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Well, there stands the old gentleman, writing at this desk in the window. All men, they say, bear more or less resemblance to some animal; Mr. MacGentle, rather tall and slender, with his slight stoop, and his black broadcloth frock-coat buttoned closely about his waist, brings to mind a cultivated, grandfatherly greyhound, upon his hind legs.
"We must give up hoping it, then," says Mr. MacGentle at last, in a more than usually plaintive murmur. "It is hard, very hard, dear Balder." "Now that I know there is no hope, I can acknowledge the good even while I feel the hardship. Her dreams have been of a world such as no real existence could show; to have been awakened would permanently have saddened her, if no worse.
Dyke, let me apologize for my asperity, for my rudeness," says MacGentle, stepping forward and holding out his thin white hand, his eyebrows more raised than ever, the corners of his mouth more depressed. "I am sincerely sorry that that " "O sir!" cries the square clerk, grasping the thin hand in both his square palms; "O sir! O sir! No, no! no, no!
"Why should not Glyphic be alive?" resumed Mr. MacGentle. "Why not he, as well as you or I? Aren't we all about of an age?" Helwyse drew his chair close to his companion's, and took his hand, as if it had been a young girl's. "My dear friend," said he, "you said you felt tired this morning, but you forget how far you've travelled since we last met.
And he points to an oil-painting hanging over the piano. "Grandpapa MacGentle, papa!" "What did he do for all of us?" As Master Thor hesitates a moment, the little golden-haired lady breaks in, "I know, papa! He made uth rich, and gave uth our houthe, and he thaw me when I wath a wee, wee baby, and then he he " "He went to Heaven, papa!" says Thor, recovering himself.
They are uniformly too long; yet he never dispenses with his straps, nor with the gaiters that crown his gentlemanly shoes. Although not a stimulating companion, one loves to be where Amos MacGentle is; to watch his quiet movements, and listen to his meditative talk.
MacGentle fell, no one knew exactly how, into the presidential chair of the Beacon Hill Bank. As soon as he was there, everybody saw that there he belonged. His social position, his culture, his honorable, albeit intangible record, suited the old bank well.
At all events, the latter laughed, too, and they both shook hands very heartily. "Beg pardon again, Mr. Helwyse, I'll speak to the President," said Mr. Dyke, and stepped into the sanctuary of sanctuaries. Mr. MacGentle was taking a nap. He was seventy years old, and could drop asleep easily.
What he says generally bears the stamp of thought and intellectual capacity, and at first strikes the listener as rare good sense; yet, if reconsidered afterwards, or applied to the practical tests of life, his wisdom is apt to fall mysteriously short. Is Mr. MacGentle aware of this curious fact?
I was just coming to beg you My fault, my fault, Mr. MacGentle, sir! No, no!" Thus incoherently ended the quarrel between these two old friends, the dispute being left undecided. But the important point was established that Balder Helwyse was insured a practice in Boston, in case his uncle Glyphic's fortune failed to enrich him.
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