“You must find me when you come into my world,” he continued, after a pause. “Perhaps I am one of your own people. At any rate, the great world knows me a little. Now I must leave you and go back to where the two railroads cross. My train was hours behind time, otherwise I should not have had the pleasure of meeting you. I assure you I shall not forget you, and when you come into my world I shall know you for one of us, even as I know you now.” They had risen as he spoke. He took her slender, sunburned hand in his, bent down, kissed it and was gone. “He is truly one of my very own people,” said the child to herself, as she watched him out of sight. “Now I am sure they live somewhere, and I shall find them and know them as soon as I see them, and shall be happy.” CHAPTER II. WHERE THE ROAD DIVIDES. “O Urania! the earth and the air and the sea And the infinite spaces are vocal with thee, And the sunset and moonrise seraphic with thee.” --_Ben S. Parker._ The tall young man alone on the porch walked slowly back and forth, looking off into the sweet spring sunshine, with troubled eyes. He stopped and his face flushed with pleasure as a young girl dressed for the street came out of the door. “You here, Mr. Kendall?” she said, interrogatively. “You toil not neither do you spin to-day? How’s that?” “Because I am weary and fain would rest,” he answered. “Yes, and I fain would do several other things, too; but I dare say I shall not. But you have been idling lately, too. Why so?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Like yourself I am weary and fain would do--I scarcely know what, and go I scarcely know where.” “Do you mind my asking whither you are bound just now?” “Not at all,” she answered, pleasantly, “only I can’t say definitely, because I don’t know. I shall probably fetch up at the nearest open square where there is some green grass on which I can rest my eyes a bit, and either lose myself or find myself for a little while.” “May I go with you?” He made the request a little timidly, for she had a high-handed way with him that made him a little afraid of her, though she attracted him with resistless force. “I shall be pleased.” Her voice had a sincere ring in it that flushed his face with pleasure. “You are always a good companion, because you don’t tire me talking too much.” “A dubious compliment, but I am grateful for it, nevertheless. Though if it be intended as a hint for me to keep silent this morning it will not be taken, that’s all.” They walked away together with the manner of persons accustomed to seeing much of each other. The wide old streets had birds twittering in the trees, and sunshine warm upon them. The air was soft and mild, and brought with it the gentle melancholy peculiar to spring, a melancholy that creates or awakes a strange unrest, and makes us long to go journeying to far countries, we know not why.