“Please use it yourself, whenever you like to change the scene, and look out on the bay instead of the street,” said Harcourt with a smile. “Thank you; I will.” “And now I must say good-by. I hear Adler’s step on the stairs, and he has promised to see me off,” said Harcourt, rising. “Good-by,” she said, giving him her hand. And so they parted. Adler was waiting for him in the passage, and greeted him with a hearty “Good-evening.” Harcourt put on his ulster, his seal hat and his gloves. Adler took up his carpetbag, and insisted on carrying it. They walked to the Cortlandt Street ferry, which was not far off, took the boat, and in due time reached Jersey City and the depot. “Take my advice,” said Adler, as they went toward the ticket office, “‘cuss the cost,’ and take a sleeping car. You are not yet strong enough to sit up all night.” “But must do so, nevertheless,” replied Harcourt, true to his resolution of stern self-denial. He took his ticket, bade his friend a hasty good-night, and hurried to the train, and just boarded it as it began to move slowly out of the station. To some constitutions the motion of the cars is a sedative, particularly at night, when darkness and drowsiness help the effect. This was the case with Harcourt in his weakened condition. As the hours of the night passed on he dozed, dreamed, woke up, and dozed again, until at length his slumber grew deeper, and he slept until the train reached Washington, at six o’clock on that dark March morning. He had intended to take the train immediately for West Virginia and go directly to Logwood and Lone Lodge cabin to see his mother, but on finding himself in Washington an irresistible longing seized him to go down to Snowden and get news of Roma. Without stopping to get breakfast he hastened to change cars, and was soon en route for Southern Maryland. The close of the day brought him to the little seaside town. He was known there only as the late hotel clerk, and not at all as the sometime suitor for the hand of the heiress of the Isle of Storms. He walked from the depot to the village hotel, and entered the barroom. The landlord, who was on duty there, instantly recognized him, and rose to greet him. “Ah! How do you do, sir? How do you do? You are a great stranger here. And yet I have been looking for you a long time, too,” he said, offering his hand, and heartily shaking that of the young man. “Looking for me?” inquired Harcourt. “Yes, for weeks past, I may say.” “But why?” “Well, you know, if you remember, I am postmaster.” “I know that.” “Well, then, piles and piles of letters have come here for you, and here they are. I advertised them, all to no purpose, and on the first of next month I meant to send them to the dead-letter office.” “Where are they? Give them to me,” eagerly demanded Harcourt. The landlord took them from a pigeonhole marked H and handed them over. “Are these all?” inquired the young man. “Them’s all,” replied the landlord.