“So, this is what I am to sell my soul for? A goodly price, no doubt, and more than it is worth. The owner of all this wealth cannot go begging for a husband, be she ugly as Medusa. Perhaps, after all, I have been troubling myself for nothing. She may not choose to accept a shabby young man, without a penny in his pocket, and with a gloomy face. If she refuses me, I dare say that father will let me go back to Lally.” This thought afforded him some comfort, and he plodded on, seeking relief from his troubles in exertion. He cared not whither he went, and his surprise was great when at last, arousing from his abstraction, he found himself in the streets of Canterbury. He was near an inn of the humbler sort, and, with a sudden recklessness as to what became of him, he turned into the low barroom and demanded a private parlor. A bare little apartment on the upper floor, overlooking the inn stables, was assigned him. The floor was uncovered, and a deal table, rush-bottomed chair and rickety lounge made up the sum of the furniture. Rufus called for brandy and water, tossing a shilling to the frowsy waiter. A decanter of brandy and a bottle of water were brought to him, and he entered upon a solitary orgie. He had not been used to drink, and the fiery liquid mounted to his brain, inducing stupidity and drunkenness. For an hour or two he drank with brief intermission, but sleep overpowered him, and his head fell upon the table and he snored heavily. With his red face, dishevelled hair and stertorous breathing, his unmistakable aspect of drunkenness, he presented a terrible contrast to the hopeful boy artist with his honest eyes and loving soul, who had made the dingy lodging in New Brompton a very paradise to poor Lally. The day wore on. A waiter looked in upon the poor wreck, once or twice, and went away each time chuckling. In the latter part of the afternoon Rufus awakened, and came to himself. Ashamed and conscience-stricken, his first thought being of what Lally would think of him, he summoned a waiter and demanded strong coffee and food. These were furnished him, and having partaken of them he settled his bill, and set out to walk back to Wyndham. “It makes no difference what becomes of me now,” he said to himself, as he strode along the return route. “I have started down hill, and I may as well keep on descending.” He had accomplished half the distance between Canterbury and his destination, when a four-wheeled cab, traveling briskly, came up behind him, compelling him to take to the side path. The next moment the cab stopped, and Craven Black’s head was protruded from the open window, and Craven Black’s smooth voice called: “Is that you, Rufus? What are you doing away out here? Jump in! jump in!” Rufus obeyed, entering the vehicle, and the cabman drove on. “Where have you been?” demanded the elder Black, as the son settled himself upon the front seat and opposite his father.