"You shall go home directly, LeFevre," said my uncle Toby, "to my house,
and we'll send for a doctor to see what's the matter, and we'll have an
apothecary, and the corporal shall be your nurse and I'll be your
servant, LeFevre."
There was a frankness in my Uncle Toby, not the effect of familiarity,
but the cause of it, which let you at once into his soul and showed you
the goodness of his nature; to this, there was something in his looks,
and voice, and manner superadded, which eternally beckoned to the
unfortunate to come and take shelter under him; so that before my uncle
Toby had half finished the kind offers he was making to the father, had
the son insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold of
the breast of his coat and was pulling it toward him. The blood and
spirits of LeFevre, which were waxing cold and slow within him, and were
retreating to their last citadel, the heart, rallied back, the film
forsook his eyes for a moment, and he looked up wishfully in my uncle
Toby's face, then cast a look upon his boy, and that ligament, fine as
it was, was never broken.
Nature instantly ebbed again; the film returned to its place; the pulse
fluttered--stopped--went on--throbbed--stopped
again--moved--stopped--shall I go on? No.
* * * * *
XXIII.
STEPHEN GIRARD
(BORN 1750--DIED 1831.)
THE NAPOLEON OF MERCHANTS--HIS LIFE SUCCESSFUL, AND YET A FAILURE.
Imagine the figure of an old man, low in stature, squarely built,
clumsily dressed, and standing on large feet.
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