Having conceived the thought, I rose calmly, shut the book carefully, but with decision, thrust my hands firmly into my pockets, knitted my brows, and went out in search of my bosom friend John Brown--also a commonplace name, I believe--at least, so it is said. Jack, as I used to call him, had a mother, but no father--his father died when Jack was an infant. I've often fancied that there was a delicate bond of union between us here. He had a mother, but no father. I had a father, but no mother. Strange coincidence! I think the fact helped to draw us together. I may be wrong, but I think so. Jack was on a visit to us at the time, so I had only to cross the passage to reach his room. "Come in," he cried, as I knocked. "Jack, come to my room. It's more comfortable than yours. I want your advice." He rose, in some surprise, and followed me. If John Brown's name was commonplace, his person was certainly not so. He looked like a young lord. He was a noble fellow, by nature if not by birth. A clear, sunny face, masculine chin and nose, sweet, firm mouth, the eye of an eagle, and the soft, curly, golden hair of a child. Tall, broad-shouldered, elegant, bold as a lion, gentle and kind as a lamb-- such was my best, my dearest friend, Jack. "Jack," said I, "I'm going to run away!" My friend fell into a chair, put both legs straight out, and looked at me in speechless amazement for a second; then he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. "Jack," I repeated, "I'm going to run away." "You'll do nothing of the sort," said he. "And," I continued, regardless of his remark, "I mean that you shall run away with me." "I'll do nothing of the sort," he replied. "But come, Bob, my boy, you're joking. Surely this is not the object for which you called me out of my room." "Indeed it is. Listen to me, Jack." (I looked at him impressively. He returned the look, for Jack was earnest as well as gay.) "You know that my dear father positively refused to let me go abroad, although I have entreated him to do so again and again. Now I think that's hard, you know. I love my dear father very much, but--" "You love yourself better. Is that it?" "Well, put it so if you choose. I don't care. I'm going to run away, and if you won't go with me you can stay at home--that's all." "Come, come, Bob, don't be cross," said Jack, kindly; "you know you don't mean it." "But I do; and I'm sure I don't see what it is that prevents you from going too," said I, testily. "H'm! well, there is a small matter, a sort of moral idea, so to speak, that prevents." "And what is that?"