The young poet gazed at him in deepest sympathy and pity. He had not loved yet, but he could understand and pity, for to the poet's soul all the secrets of life are felt and known through the subtle occultism of genius. "The poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above; Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love. "He saw through life and death, through good and ill, saw through his own soul." As Ralph gazed at the handsome face of the unhappy lover, he felt that here was the material for a novelist's pen to frame a most bewitching love-story, and he hoped that some day Hawthorne would confide in him. Suddenly the young man looked up at him, saying, abruptly: "Ralph, I want you to take me to the best detective in Chicago to-morrow morning." "Very well," replied Ralph, going to a table and mixing a sedative that had been used under Doctor Rowe's orders. He presented it to the patient, saying: "Drink this, or you won't be able to stir to-morrow morning." Hawthorne complied readily, for he was, indeed, weary of the tumult of his mind and heart. He closed his eyes wearily, and Ralph dimmed the light and returned to his study, and the last verse of the pretty poem he was composing. When he had written the last line he heard Hawthorne breathing gently in a saving sleep, and he, too, retired to his bed. Both slept late the next morning, and breakfast and the morning papers were brought up together for Hawthorne. Ralph saw that his charge was comfortable, and went out to a neighboring _cafe_ where he was wont to meet his friend Mr. Hill at the morning meal. Hawthorne made a very light meal in bed, dismissed the servant with the tray, and then turned his attention to the newspapers--the Chicago _Herald_ first. And as he skimmed over the telegraphic news from abroad, he came across a paragraph that worked a curious change in him. His face grew pale with emotion, and sinking back on his pillow, he sighed to himself: "I must go home." When Ralph returned with Mr. Hill, who always made a morning call on his _protege_, as he humorously termed Hawthorne, they found the patient dressing in feverish haste. "Boys, I must return to New York to-day," he exclaimed. While they gazed at him in surprise, he continued: "Business of a very important nature obliges me to cross the ocean as soon as possible; and--in brief--I owe you both a debt of gratitude that I wish to repay you by asking you to accompany me on my trip to Europe as my guests. Will you come? I am not poor, as you supposed, in the kindness of your hearts, when you took me in, a stranger, and nursed and cared for me, and a cordial welcome will meet you in my English home!" They were startled and surprised at his generosity, but Hawthorne would not listen to their refusals. "I love you both like brothers, and I will not be refused. You shall come with me," he declared, and his cordiality won their consent.