They were dignified, he was graceful; they were consistently
slow of movement, but at times his quick gestures showed that he had not
been able to train his spirit to that passiveness by which he lived
surrounded. Their eyes were slow and quiet, more meditative than
observant; his were changeful in expression, now abstracted, now dark and
shining as though some inner fire was burning. The head, too, had a habit
of coming up quickly with an almost wilful gesture, and with an air
which, in others, might have been called pride.
"What is thy name?" said another owl-like Elder to him.
A gentle, half-amused smile flickered at the young man's lips for an
instant, then, "David Claridge--still," he answered.
His last word stirred the meeting. A sort of ruffle went through the
atmosphere, and now every eye was fixed and inquiring. The word was
ominous. He was there on his trial, and for discipline; and it was
thought by all that, as many days had passed since his offence was
committed, meditation and prayer should have done their work.
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