Directly after four o’clock, he found himself walking up the Thorsgarth avenue, and, as he went, he could not but remember, mistily at first, how he and those three other boys had once made that now so mournful aisle ring with their shouts of mirth and delight. ‘The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts,’ and as he walked on and emerged in the open space before the house, the dimness vanished, and there came, glowing and sunshiny as at the time, athwart all the frost and grayness of the present, the vivid recollection of those summer days, when he had seen this same girl on whom he was now going to call, led by her nurse’s hand, or by that of the proud young beauty, her mother, pacing the terraces, and he, a boy of twelve, had lain upon the river-bank, and dreamed his dreams, lulled half to sleep by the warmth of the sunshine and the murmur of the stream. Then, almost before he had adjusted his mind to this recollection it seemed, he heard his name announced to her and stood before her, in a sombre room on the ground-floor—the library. Eleanor, who was pale and tired, as he saw when he entered, rose from a chair by the fire, and offered him her hand, a slow, deep blush spreading itself over her whole face. But she betrayed no embarrassment of speech or manner. She looked grave, sad, composed. ‘It is kind of you to come, just because I asked you,’ said she, as they both sat down. ‘There is no kindness in that,’ said Michael, beginning to measure his words, in pursuance of his resolution. ‘You said you wished to speak to me, or to ask me something—I forget which,—and of course I came. Equally of course, you may find me the most ignorant or silent of men, before I leave you.’ ‘I know you are not ignorant on the points as to which I wish for information. But you may very easily choose to be silent,’ answered Eleanor. ‘First of all, let me ask how you are to-day? How did you sustain the shock of the cold water yesterday afternoon?’ ‘I have taken no cold, thank you. In fact, when I had got my wet things off, and had become warm by the fire, I was so utterly worn out that I couldn’t sit up any longer, and ignominiously went to bed.’ ‘And to sleep, I hope?’ ‘Well—I won’t boast of having slept much; but that was not because of the plunge into the Balder Beck.... Mr. Langstroth, I am not going to make apologies or say I am sure you must be surprised at my asking you to call upon me to-day, or anything of that kind. I think you can believe I am trying to act for the best.’ ‘I am sure you are,’ said he, briefly and coldly. ‘Yes. Therefore, no apologies are needed; but perhaps a word of explanation is. You know I am almost a stranger here?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘But of course you do not know that my brother is as much a stranger to me and my friends as I am to him and his.’ ‘I did not know it—but——’