hands were big, his feet were big.  He wore a rather full beard:  he was slightly bald when I knew him, but his hair grew rather long and curly.  He always wore old clothes—­but you were never conscious of what he wore:  he never looked, as some people do, like a suit of clothes with a person inside them.  Thinking it over, it seems to me that the reason why you noticed his clothes so little, when you were with him, was because you were always observing his face, or his hands, which were extremely characteristic of him, or his motions, which had a lounging sort of grace about them.  Heavy men are apt on occasions to look lumbering, but Father Payne never looked that.  His whole body was under his full control.  When he walked, he swung easily along; when he moved, he moved impetuously and eagerly.  But his face was the most remarkable thing about him.  It had no great distinction of feature, and it was sanguine, often sunburnt, in hue.  But, solid as it was, it was all alive.  His big dark eyes were brimful of amusement and kindliness, and it was like coming into a warm room on a cold day to have his friendly glance directed upon you.  As he talked, his eyebrows moved swiftly, and he had a look, with his eyes half-closed and his brows drawn up, as he waited for an answer, of what the old books call “quizzical”—­a sort of half-caressing irony, which was very attractive.  He had an impatient little frown which passed over his face, like a ruffle of wind, if things went too slowly or heavily for his taste; and he had, too, on occasions a deep, abstracted look, as if he were following a thought far.  There was also another look, well known to his companions, when he turned his eyes upwards with a sort of resignation, generally accompanied by a deprecating gesture of the hand.  Altogether it was a most expressive face, because, except in his abstracted mood, he always seemed to be entirely there, not concealing or repressing anything, but bending his whole mind upon what was being said.  Moreover, if you said anything personal or intimate to him, a word of gratitude or pleasure, he had a quick, beautiful, affectionate look, so rewarding, so embracing that I often tried to evoke it—­though an attempt to evoke it deliberately often produced no more than a half-smile, accompanied by a little wink, as if he saw through the attempt.

His great soft white hands, always spotlessly clean—­he was the cleanest-looking man I ever saw—­were really rather extraordinary.  They looked at first sight clumsy, and even limp; but he was unusually deft and adroit with his fingers, and his touch on plants, in gardening, his tying of strings—­he liked doing up parcels—­was very quick and delicate.  He was fond of all sorts of little puzzles, toys of wood and metal, which had to be fitted together; and the puzzles took shape or fell to pieces under his fingers like magic.  They were extremely sensitive to pain, his hands, and a little pinch or abrasion would cause him marked discomfort.  His handwriting was rapid and fine, and he occasionally would draw a tiny sketch to illustrate something, which showed much artistic skill.  He often deplored his ignorance of handicraft, which, he said would have been a great relief to him.