Arthur found it amounted to this—he must do one of three things—to ask no questions, enter into no conversation with Miss Gordon or any of the family—request to take his meals by himself—or quit the house. It was very irksome, certainly, to sit in perfect silence when there was one person, at least, who had conversational powers; it was likewise irksome to see people moving about him all day, to know that they all had communion with one another, and that he alone should stalk about the house and grounds in utter silence, save the two hours when he was engaged in teaching. He walked out to consider of it in the open air, and after an hour’s ramble through groves and walks, breathing delicious perfumes, he returned with the determination to bear with the eccentric humor of the family and remain with them until the winter set in. It certainly was very disheartening to meet no pleasant voice on his entering the house, and to go to his solitary chamber without a kind _good-night_ from a living soul, yet Arthur did not murmur. If he were always thankful for “small benefits,” he had reason to be grateful now, for here all the comforts and luxuries of life were in abundance, and there were two great pleasures added to all this—the library and the beautiful face and pleasing manners of his pupil. He took a long walk, and returned more elevated, more grateful and humble than ever, it was a perfect fairy-land all around, and why should the foolish manners of the inmates of the house disturb his tranquillity. He strove to keep the thought uppermost that it was to these very eccentric people he owed his happiness, so he was shown to the breakfast-room with feelings disposed to submit to what, under other circumstances, would be so difficult to bear. Miss Gordon was already there, and to Arthur’s surprise and confusion, she held out her hand with a kind good-morning and a pleasant smile. The conversation was trifling, he kept a rein over his thoughts and let none but such as were mere commonplace go forth to excite the merriment of the person in the next room, for Arthur presumed he was there, as the door was still half open. Just at parting he made the unlucky observation, that as he had taken sufficient exercise for the morning he should go again to the library, for there he should find friends—friends who had always cheered and consoled him. He might, to be sure, have omitted the speech, simple as it was, yet how could one so entirely alone avoid feeling this loneliness—it was no cause of mirth to others, certainly, and yet the man in the next room laughed merrily. “What a magnificent mind it was that planned this library,” said Arthur, pointing to it, as the lady and he left the room. She smiled faintly, however, and as they separated, replied that “it was planned—as well as the house and grounds—by the laugher in the next room.”