I have not yet decided what he shall be shouting, when the current of my thoughts is turned by seeing some one--thank Heaven, not a footman, this time!--advancing across the sward toward me. Surely I know the nonchalant lounge of that walk--the lazy self-consciousness of that gait, though, when last I saw it, it was not on dewy English turf, but on the baking flags of a foreign town. It is Mr. Musgrave. Until this moment I have ungratefully forgotten his existence, and all the interesting facts he told me connected with his existence--how his lodge faces ours--how he has no father nor mother, and lives by himself at an abbey. Alas! in this latter particular, can I not feel for him? Am _I_ not living by myself at a _hall_? Vick recognizes him at about the same moment as I do. Having first sprung at him with that volubility of small but hostile _yaps_, with which she strikes terror into the hearts of tramps, she has now--having _smelt_ him to be not only respectable, but an acquaintance--changed her behavior to a little servile whine and a series of high jumps at his hand. "It is you, is it?" cry I, springing up and running to meet him with an elate sensation of company and sociability; "I had quite forgotten that you lived near here. I'm _so_ glad!" At my happy remark as to having been hitherto oblivious of his existence, his face falls in the old lowering way I remember so well, and that brings back to me so forcibly the Prager Strasse, the Zwinger, the even sunshine, that favored my honey-moon; but at the heartily-expressed joy at seeing him, with which I conclude, he cheers up again. If he had known that I was in so reduced a state that I should have enjoyed a colloquy with a chimney-sweep, and not despised exchanging opinions with a dustman, he would not have thought my admission worth much. "So you have come at last," he says, holding my hand, and looking at me with those long dark eyes that I would swear were black had not a conscientious and thorough daylight scrutiny of them assured me long ago that they were hazel. "Yes," say I, cheerfully; "I told you you would catch sight of us, sooner or later, if you waited long enough." "And your tenants never dragged you in, after all?" "No," say I; "we did not give them the chance. But how do _you_ know? Were you peeping out of your lodge? If I had remembered that you lived there, I would have been on the lookout for you." "You had, of course, entirely forgotten so insignificant a fact?" he says, with a tone of pique. That happy one! how well I recollect it! I feel quite fondly toward it; it reminds me so strongly of the Linkesches Bad, of the brisk band, and of Roger smoking and smiling at me with his gray eyes across our Mai-trank. "Yes," I say, contritely, "I am ashamed to say I had--_quite_; but you see I have had a good many things to think of lately." At this point it strikes me that he must have forgotten that he has my hand, so I quietly, and without offense, resume it.