A Great Man

He had an extremely intelligent, inquisitorial, and agnostical face, and a fair, curled head of hair, which

uired Aunt

not to commit himself, and waiting

old you I specially wanted you

picking imaginary bits off it. 'And you might

dnight!' Aunt Annie proc

comb in my hair,' sai

unt Annie cur

self?' Aunt Annie said kindly, going to the cot and ex

glars,' Tom continu

ronounced sharply. 'You can't hea

bout, and doors sh

Will you promise to be a goo

eplied. 'But if it's a go

little boy, ever so little! Th

he house!' was Tom's dispassio

ame yet, but he

up the stairs

laughed. 'N

ey; and he wouldn't come down the chimney 'cause of the soot.

unt Su

she knows

glad. Now go to sleep. And I'll tel

on't feel sure. And I say, auntie, will

e smiled. She was half way through

u sure?' To

sure. Go

t Susan want

sn't. Go to

me just afterwards, and he died, that littl

unt Annie, closing

till his feet touched the floor. He found his clothes, which Aunt Annie invariably placed on a chair in a certain changeless order, and he put some of them on, so

front of them a door, where they were to ring again. This door was usually closed, but to-night Tom found it ajar. He peeped out and downwards, and thought of the vast showroom below and the wonderful regions of the street. Then

e and the fatalism of infan

wearing a high hat and carrying a black bag was ascending. In a flash Tom recollected a talk with his dead father, in which th

head of the stairs, went outside

staring intently at the bag to se

ctor. It was Quain Short,

one. They've got one,' Tom as

're

articularly that they d

? Do you know his name?

he's come, and he's in the b

r. Quain Short under h

ook up his old positi

again to reconnoitre. And, lo! another tall gentleman wearing

es three,

?' asked the gentleman, smi

st one came ever such a long time ago. And I can t

Then I'm too late, my little man. I was af

nd Dr. Christ

se, up came another tall gent

four,'

ry Knight's regular physician and s

he bag, which was larger and glossier than its predecessors. 'Have you brought a ver

parents were quite inexperienced, and Mrs. Puddiphatt was an accoucheuse of the sixties, and

t?' the doctor q

hat bag,' T

er,' said the doctor, striding a

e himself to seek rest until he had got it down in black-and-white; for, though he wrote letters instead of sonnets, he was nevertheless a sort of a poet by temperament. You behold him calm now, master once more of his emotions, and not that agitated, pompous, and slightly ridiculous person who

ped pen in ink

atest poet, but also the greatest moral

e own sel

ollow, as the

t then be fal

diction, are we or are we not, in this matter of t

obedi

entious T

uck it out and wrote instead: 'Paterfamilias.' He felt that this pseudonym was perhap