There are things which a man can have but once. Some men are so happy as to retain those best things of life till old age--but he was not one of those blessed men----. And he was no longer wretched and a wanderer on the face of the earth. Time had brought him a softening quiet, a dim pleasantness of tranquillity and friends--good, tender, soothing, kindest friends. Someone coming in broke suddenly this strange revival of memory--and of all people in the world it was the doctor, Maxwell, whose name was so linked to the recollections of the old life, but who, Beresford felt, had never been the same to him since Annie died. His mind had been so preoccupied that he had never inquired what was the cause of this estrangement. What did it matter to him if all the world was estranged? He had felt vaguely; and if he thought upon the subject at all, supposed that in the anguish of his mind he had said something or done something to vex his old friend. But what did it matter? His life had been too much shipwrecked at first to leave his mind at liberty to care what might happen. And now the estrangement was a _fait accompli_. But his heart was touched and soft that morning. The thought of Annie had come back to him, and here was someone deeply associated with Annie. In the little start with which he got up from his chair at the sound of Maxwell’s name, a rush of resolution ran through his veins with a rapidity such as leaves words hopelessly behind. ‘I will get to the bottom of it whatever it is. I will know the cause, and make it up with Maxwell.’ These words would have taken some definite atom of time to think and say, but the thought rushed through his mind instantaneously as he rose holding out his hand. ‘Maxwell! you are an unusual visitor now-a-days. I am very glad to see you,’ he said. That he should have come just now of all times in the world!