The old man sighed at the thought that he had outlived the possibility of hope. He was too old to look forward, except beyond the grave; and his eyes, so keen for the business of this world, were yet too dull to pierce the mists that veil Death’s fatal river, and reach the shore that lies upon the other side. What hold had he now upon the things of this earth—toil and profit, and the strong wine of success? He, who had once been whole owner of the good ship Life, was now reduced to a sixty-fourth share in that gallant vessel. What recked it to him where she drifted or against what rock she perished, now his interest in her was so small? To think of the future—that earthly future which alone presented itself to his too mundane mind—was to think of a time in which he must cease to be. He could not easily transfer his hopes to those who were to succeed him; those who might perchance reap the fruit of his unwearying toil. He thought of all the miles—the stony London miles—that he had walked in pursuit of his trade—often with tired feet. He thought of that stern system of deprivation he had imposed on himself, till he had schooled his appetite to habitual self-denial, brought the demon sense into subjection so complete that it was as if he had been created without the longings of other men. How many a time had he passed through the savoury steam of some popular dining-place, while hunger gnawed his entrails! On how many a bitter day he had refused himself the modest portion of strong drink which might have comforted him after his weary wanderings! He had denied himself all the things that other men deem necessities—had denied himself with money in his pockets—and had amassed his collection. To-day he was unusually disposed to gloomy thought, and began even to doubt whether the collection was worth the life of deprivation it had cost him. He had been gradually recovering health and strength for some time, but with convalescence came a curiously depressed state of mind. He was not strong enough to go about his business—to potter about as of old amidst the chaos of his various treasures, to resume the compilation of an elaborate descriptive catalogue, at which he had been slowly working since his removal to Cedar House. Nor could he think of reinspecting his miscellaneous possessions without a pang, lest, in doing so, he should find even greater loss than he was now aware of. So, powerless to seek consolation from a return to business and activity, he sat by his fireside in the gloomy October weather, and brooded over the past. Lucille tended him as of old, with the same unvarying patience and affection. ‘It is such a happiness to see you looking so much better, dear grandfather,’ she said, as she stood beside him while he ate his noontide mutton-chop, a simple fare which seemed particularly savoury after that diet of broths and jellies to which he had been kept so long.