There was a mournful smile upon Eustace Thorburn’s face as he read the letters. He knew the writer so well, and knew into what a poor, imperfect, dilapidated habitation that air-built castle had resolved itself. The young man had not deceived himself as to his own powers; he had only wasted them. The talents had been his, and he had scattered the precious gifts here and there with a reckless hand--too rich to fear poverty, too strong to apprehend exhaustion. He had thrown his pearls before swine, and had allowed his diamonds to be set in worthless crowns of brass and tinsel. The flower of his youth had faded, while he, who might have achieved greatness--and that which seems a deal more difficult for genius to achieve, respectability--was only Dan Mayfield, a newspaper hack, one of a modern Jacob Tonson’s “clever hands,” a lounger in taverns, a penniless Bohemian, with flowing hair, which time was beginning to thin, and eyes at whose corners the crow had set the ineffaceable print of his feet. Eustace replaced the letters with a respectful hand. Was he not tampering with the ashes of his mother’s youth, and was not every paper in that desk sanctified by the tears of the dead? “Poor Uncle Dan!” he murmured, gently; “poor, kind, sanguine Uncle Dan!” CHAPTER III. “TAKE BACK THESE LETTERS, MEANT FOR HAPPINESS.” THERE were several notes and letters in the next packet which Eustace Thorburn examined, and over these he lingered very long--reading some amongst them a second time, and returning to reconsider others which he had put aside after a first perusal. These letters were written on the thickest and finest paper, and exhaled a faint odour of millefleurs, so faint as to be only the impalpable ghost of a departed perfume. Notes and letters were alike dated, but the only signature to be found amongst them was the single initial H. Eustace read them in the order in which they had been written. “The author of the book which Miss Mayfield was reading on Tuesday afternoon has called at the library three times since that day, but has not had the happiness of seeing her. Will Miss Mayfield be good enough to write one line, saying _when_ she may be seen? The writer, who feels himself unworthy of her eloquent praises, most earnestly wishes for an interview, if only of a few minutes’ duration. “_The George Hotel, June 6, 1843._” “The author of the book?” repeated Eustace; “what book? Was this man a writer?” This letter had been delivered by hand. The next bore the postmark of Bayham, that Dorsetshire watering-place to which Daniel’s letters had been addressed. It was directed to “C. M., _The Post-Office_, _Bayham_. “_To be left till called for._” “The seducer’s favourite address,” muttered Eustace, as he unfolded the letter. “_George Hotel, June 15, 1843._