"No, no; not forgotten. Clara knows, an that's partly why she makes so little of me; I know it is."
"I don't believe it! She's a good-hearted girl"
A heavy footstep on the stairs checked him. The door was thrown open, and there entered a youth of nineteen, clad as an artisan. He was a shapely fellow, though not quite so stout as perfect health would have made him, and had a face of singular attractiveness, clear-complexioned, delicate featured, a-gleam with intelligence. The intelligence was perhaps even too pronounced; seen in profile, the countenance had an excessive eagerness; there was selfish force about the lips, moreover, which would have been better away. His noisy entrance indicated an impulsive character, and the nod with which he greeted Kirkwood was self-sufficient.
"Where's that medal I cast last night, mother?" he asked, searching in various corners of the room and throwing things about.
