It is very difficult at such moments to remember how far we ourselves have changed in the interval, and how much of what we regard as altered in another may not simply be the new standpoint from which we are looking, and thus our friend may be graver, or sadder, or more thoughtful, or, as it may happen, seem less reflective and less considerative than we have thought him, all because the world has been meantime dealing with ourselves in such wise that qualities we once cared for have lost much of their value, and others that we had deemed of slight account have grown into importance with us. Most of us know the painful disappointment of revisiting scenes which had impressed us strongly in early life: how the mountain we regarded with a wondering admiration had become a mere hill, and the romantic tarn a pool of sluggish water; and some of this same awakening pursues us in our renewal of old intimacies, and we find ourselves continually warring with our recollections. Besides this, there is another source of uneasiness that presses unceasingly. It is in imputing every change we discover, or think we discover in our friend, to some unknown influences that have asserted their power over him in our absence, and thus when we find that our arguments have lost their old force, and our persuasions can be stoutly resisted, we begin to think that some other must have usurped our place, and that there is treason in the heart we had deemed to be loyally our own. How far Kate and Gorman suffered under these irritations, I do not stop to inquire, but certain it is, that all their renewed intercourse was little other than snappish reminders of unfavourable change in each, and assurances more frank than flattering that they had not improved in the interval. ‘How well I know every tree and alley of this old garden!’ said he, as they strolled along one of the walks in advance of the others. ‘Nothing is changed here but the people.’ ‘And do you think we are?’ asked she quietly. ‘I should think I do! Not so much for your father, perhaps. I suppose men of his time of life change little, if at all; but you are as ceremonious as if I had been introduced to you this morning.’ ‘You addressed me so deferentially as Miss Kearney, and with such an assuring little intimation that you were not either very certain of _that_, that I should have been very courageous indeed to remind you that I once was Kate.’ ‘No, not Kate--Kitty,’ rejoined he quickly. ‘Oh yes, perhaps, when you were young, but we grew out of that.’ ‘Did we? And when?’ ‘When we gave up climbing cherry-trees, and ceased to pull each other’s hair when we were angry.’ ‘Oh dear!’ said he drearily, as his head sank heavily. ‘You seem to sigh over those blissful times, Mr. O’Shea,’ said she, ‘as if they were terribly to be regretted.’ ‘So they are. So I feel them.’ ‘I never knew before that quarrelling left such pleasant associations.’