"Ah!" said he, with more emphasis than was usual with him. "It is Mr.

Coverdale!"

"Yes, Mr. Moodie, your old acquaintance," answered I. "It is some time

now since we ate luncheon together at Blithedale, and a good deal

longer since our little talk together at the street corner."

"That was a good while ago," said the old man.

And he seemed inclined to say not a word more. His existence looked so

colorless and torpid,--so very faintly shadowed on the canvas of

reality,--that I was half afraid lest he should altogether disappear,

even while my eyes were fixed full upon his figure. He was certainly

the wretchedest old ghost in the world, with his crazy hat, the dingy

handkerchief about his throat, his suit of threadbare gray, and

especially that patch over his right eye, behind which he always seemed

to be hiding himself. There was one method, however, of bringing him

out into somewhat stronger relief. A glass of brandy would effect it.

Perhaps the gentler influence of a bottle of claret might do the same.

Nor could I think it a matter for the recording angel to write down

against me, if--with my painful consciousness of the frost in this old

man's blood, and the positive ice that had congealed about his heart--I

should thaw him out, were it only for an hour, with the summer warmth

of a little wine. What else could possibly be done for him? How else

could he be imbued with energy enough to hope for a happier state

hereafter? How else be inspired to say his prayers? For there are

states of our spiritual system when the throb of the soul's life is too

faint and weak to render us capable of religious aspiration.

"Mr. Moodie," said I, "shall we lunch together? And would you like to

drink a glass of wine?"

His one eye gleamed. He bowed; and it impressed me that he grew to be

more of a man at once, either in anticipation of the wine, or as a

grateful response to my good fellowship in offering it.

"With pleasure," he replied.

The bar-keeper, at my request, showed us into a private room, and soon

afterwards set some fried oysters and a bottle of claret on the table;

and I saw the old man glance curiously at the label of the bottle, as

if to learn the brand.

"It should be good wine," I remarked, "if it have any right to its

label."

"You cannot suppose, sir," said Moodie, with a sigh, "that a poor old

fellow like me knows any difference in wines."




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