"I thought I saw Susan on the wharf," he said. "You must have been mistaken, Joshua," said Minnie; "she was hard at work at home when I left. If it had been Susan, she would not have gone away when you went towards her." "I suppose I _must_ have been mistaken. Good-morning, Minnie; take care of yourself going home." He led her down the gangway, and Minnie made her way, like a gleam of sunshine among the throng of rough workingmen, who stood aside to let her pass, and sent admiring looks after her. During his work that afternoon Joshua thought much of her, and of her father's anxiety concerning her. "Mr. Kindred is right," he thought. "Minnie requires gentle tender guidance; such guidance as Dan can give her, and will have the right to do soon, I hope. She can have no better teacher, wiser counsellor, than Dan!" So he mused and worked, and saw no signs of the dark clouds that were gathering about him. CHAPTER XXII. NEVER TO RETURN. Could a map be made of the mental life of a man whose career has been marked by the commonest of commonplace incidents, and from that map a tale were woven, it would transcend in interest the most eventful story that can be found in the wonder-world of fiction. Space matter, and all the abstract relations of the Great System, affect the meanest order of mind, and produce the strangest of contrasts between the outer and inner life of men. Not more strange perhaps, but certainly more beautiful, are the contrasts presented in men of a high order of intelligence. As in the case of Dan. Quiet as were the grooves in which his material life moved, compassed as it was by a few narrow streets, his ideal life was a romance. It glowed with poetic beauty, and was filled with graceful images, like a peaceful lake in whose waters are reflected the glories of grand sunsets and the delicate lines and colors of night clouds and overhanging trees. Had it been Dan's fate to mix with the world, his sensitive nature would have rendered him the most unhappy of beings. The selfishness with which the world abounds, and with which he would have been brought in contact, would have made his life a misery. Wishful to see good in every thing, he would have seen its reverse in so many things, that his enduring faith in the purity and goodness of those upon whom he fixed his affections might have been weakened. His friends were few, but all his heart was theirs, and no doubt of their truth found place in his mind. Not to suspect belonged to the nobility of his nature.