Some lovely autumn day, at a watering-place, you may perchance be strolling by the sea, with crowds of well-dressed, happy people on the one side, and on the other the calm sunlit plain where boats are passing to and fro.  A bath-chair approaches, and a young man clad in black gets out of it, where some friendly iron railings afford him a support for his hand.  There, step by step, leaning heavily on the rails, he essays to walk as a child.  The sockets of his joints yield beneath him, the limbs are loose, the ankle twists aside; each step is an enterprise, and to gain a yard a task.  Thus day by day the convalescent strives to accustom the sinews to their work.  It is a painful spectacle; how different, how strangely altered, from the upright frame and the swift stride that struggled through the miry lane, perhaps even then bearing the seeds of disease imbibed in some foul village den, where duty called him!

His wan, white face seems featureless; there is nothing but a pair of deep-set eyes.  But as you pass, and momentarily catch their glance, they are bright and burning still with living faith.

CHAPTER XVI

THE SOLICITOR

In glancing along the street of a country town, a house may sometimes be observed of a different and superior description to the general row of buildings.  It is larger, rises higher, and altogether occupies more space.  The facade is stylish, in architectural fashion of half a century since.  To the modern eye it may not perhaps look so interesting as the true old gabled roofs which seem so thoroughly English, nor, on the other hand, so bright and cheerful as the modern suburban villa.  But it is substantial and roomy within.  The weather has given the front a sombre hue, and the windows are dingy, as if they rarely or never knew the care of a housemaid.  On the ground floor the windows that would otherwise look on to the street are blocked to almost half their height with a wire blind so closely woven that no one can see in, and it is not easy to see out.  The doorway is large, with stone steps and porch—­the doorway of a gentleman’s house.  There is business close at hand—­shops and inns, and all the usual offices of a town—­but, though in the midst, this house wears an air of separation from the rest of the street.

When it was built—­say fifty years ago, or more—­it was, in fact, the dwelling-house of an independent gentleman.  Similar houses may be found in other parts of the place, once inhabited by retired and wealthy people.  Such persons no longer live in towns of this kind—­they build villas with lawns and pleasure grounds outside in the environs, or, though still retaining their pecuniary interest, reside at a distance.  Like large cities, country towns are now almost given over to offices, shops, workshops, and hotels.  Those who have made money get away from the streets as quickly as possible.  Upon approaching nearer to this particular