It was already privately whispered in the little circle that Mike would some day go on the stage.

But don't tell that as yet to old Mr.Laflin, whatever you do.
There was a good deal more in Mike than pulling faces, as Esther recently, and Henry before her, had discovered.

His acting was some day to stir the hearts of audiences, because he had instincts for knowing human nature inside as well as out, knew the secret springs of tears, as well as the open secrets of laughter; and it was rather on this common ground of a rich "many-veined humanity" that these two had met and become friends, rather than on any real community of tastes and ideas.
Yet Mike loved books too, and had an excellent taste in them, though perhaps he had hardly loved them, had not Henry and Esther loved them first, and it is quite certain, and quite proper, that he never found a page of any book so fascinating as the face of some lined and battered human being.

Over that writing he was never found asleep.
There was one other literary matter on which he held a very personal and unshakable opinion,--Henry Mesurier's future as a poet; and on this he came just in the nick of time to cheer him this evening.
"The next move will be to London, old fellow," he said; "and then you'll soon see my prophecies come true.

My opinion mayn't be worth much, but you know what it is.