“Or who advised me at Tor Hadham to string my lyre to the praise of a beefsteak. I, too, am not quite the same,--I, whose dog presented you with the begging-tray.” “Yet you still go through the world singing.” “Even that vagrant singing time is pretty well over. But I disturbed you from your repose; I would rather share it. You are probably not going my way, and as I am in no hurry, I should not like to lose the opportunity chance has so happily given me of renewing acquaintance with one who has often been present to my thoughts since we last met.” Thus saying, the minstrel stretched himself at ease on the bank, and Kenelm followed his example. There certainly was a change in the owner of the dog with the begging-tray, a change in costume, in countenance, in that indescribable self-evidence which we call “manner.” The costume was not that Bohemian attire in which Kenelm had first encountered the wandering minstrel, nor the studied, more graceful garb, which so well became his shapely form during his visit to Luscombe. It was now neatly simple, the cool and quiet summer dress any English gentleman might adopt in a long rural walk. And as he uncovered his head to court the cooling breeze, there was a graver dignity in the man’s handsome Rubens-like face, a line of more concentrated thought in the spacious forehead, a thread or two of gray shimmering here and there through the thick auburn curls of hair and beard. And in his manner, though still very frank, there was just perceptible a sort of self-assertion, not offensive, but manly; such as does not misbecome one of maturer years, and of some established position, addressing another man much younger than himself, who in all probability has achieved no position at all beyond that which the accident of birth might assign to him. “Yes,” said the minstrel, with a half-suppressed sigh, “the last year of my vagrant holidays has come to its close. I recollect that the first day we met by the road-side fountain, I advised you to do like me, seek amusement and adventure as a foot-traveller. Now, seeing you, evidently a gentleman by education and birth, still a foot-traveller, I feel as if I ought to say, ‘You have had enough of such experience: vagabond life has its perils as well as charms; cease it, and settle down.’” “I think of doing so,” replied Kenelm, laconically. “In a profession?--army, law, medicine?” “No.” “Ah, in marriage then. Right; give me your hand on that. So a petticoat indeed has at last found its charm for you in the actual world as well as on the canvas of a picture?” “I conclude,” said Kenelm, evading any direct notice of that playful taunt, “I conclude from your remark that it is in marriage _you_ are about to settle down.” “Ay, could I have done so before I should have been saved from many errors, and been many years nearer to the goal which dazzled my sight through the haze of my boyish dreams.” “What is that goal,--the grave?”