You remember the look you met in that man's eyes. He has
tasted life and found it bitter; has sounded the world and found it
hollow; has known man or woman and found them false. Friendship to
him is without savour, and love without hope.
After watching the children for an hour, the stranger slipped out
quietly. Mistress Mary followed him to the door, abashed at her
unintentional discourtesy in allowing him to go without a good
morning. She saw him stand at the foot of the steps, look first up,
then down the street, then walk aimlessly to the corner. There, with
hands in pockets, he paused again, glancing four ways; then, with a
shrug and a gait that seemed to say, 'It makes no difference,' he
slouched away.
'He is simply a stranger in a strange city, pining for his home,'
thought Mary, 'or else he is a stranger in every city, and has
nowhere a home.'
He came again a few days later, and then again, apologising for the
frequency of his visits, but giving no special reason for them. The
neophytes called him 'the Solitary,' but the children christened him
after a fashion of their own, and began to ask small favours of him.
'Thread my needle, please, Mr. Man!' 'More beads,' or 'More paper,
Mr. Man, please.'
It is impossible to keep out of relation with little children.
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