“I assure you the thing is possible,” said Eustace, earnestly. “There are several initials indicative of different localities. Let us start with the supposition that these are genuine; and if we can fit them to localities within a given radius, we may fancy ourselves on the right track. We have the general features of the place--a wild, mountainous district, steep cliffs, sands, and lonely shanties. See, I have jotted down the places indicated by initials. Here they are: ‘1st. H. H. The head-quarters of Dion. ‘2nd. D. P. A craggy headland, crowned by a little classic temple. ‘3rd. The most uninteresting ruins in A. A. would seem, therefore, to be the initial of the country. “There are your indications, Uncle Dan; the map or a guide-book must do the rest. You would take as much trouble to decipher a puzzle in arithmetic, or to work a difficult problem in Euclid. My mother’s fate is more to me--nearer to your heart, I know--than all Euclid.” “But if we find the scene and identify it, what then?” “The scene may tell me the name of the man.” “What, Eustace! still the old foolish eagerness to know what is better left unknown?” “To the very end of my life, Uncle Dan. And now let us look at your map of Scotland.” “I have no map worth looking at. No, Eustace, there shall be no attempts at discovery to-night. Leave me that scrap of paper, and while you are away I will try to identify these places. When you return, we will take our Highland holiday together, come what may. It will be fresh life to me to get away from London, and I will not say how pleasant it will be to me to take my pleasure with you.” “Dear, true friend.” They shook hands, in token that to this plan both were irrevocably bound. The morning’s mail-train carried Eustace to Dover, and on the next night he slept at a humble hotel near the Luxembourg. He had no difficulty in finding a commodious lodging within his modest means, and he began his work at the great library two days after his arrival. The people to whom he brought letters of introduction were people of the best kind, but Eustace availed himself sparely of their hospitable invitations. His days were spent in the library; his nights were given to the great poem, which grew and ripened under his patient hand. “If it should be a success!” he said to himself; “if it should go home to the hearts of the people--as true poetry should go--at once--with an electric power! It has brought the tears to my eyes, it has quickened the beating of my heart, it has kept me awake of nights with a fever of hope and rapture; but for all that it may be only fustian. A man’s dreams and thoughts may be bright enough, but the translation of them cold and dull; or the thoughts themselves may be worthless--rotten wood, not to be made sound by any showy veneer of language.”