‘I shall go to Berlin, amongst other places,’ said Myles, who had assumed the very attitude which the young Englishman had wished him to take, and who sat, his hand half across his face, looking out, through the open window, into the darkness of the garden. ‘I suppose I shall wander from one place to another. I do not much care where I go. You know it is your doing, sir, that I am going at all.’ ‘I wonder that you should go to Berlin, from one town to another. I should have thought the green woods and fresh air of Thüringen, or----’ Myles shook his head. ‘No; I don’t care about the country. It is dull.’ ‘Or to England, to see your friends?’ The young man started. ‘No--oh, certainly not,’ said he. ‘The last place I should wish to go to. No, Herr Süsmeyer; with your introductions and through your kindness, I shall meet with friends in Berlin and other places, and shall see a great deal that is interesting, and which I have long wished to see. I shall come back here refreshed and ready for work again, until your son----’ ‘We can talk about that when Julius arrives. Time enough, time enough! I hate changes,’ said Herr Süsmeyer. ‘Meanwhile, I have had very good news to-day--excellent news.’ ‘Indeed!’ ‘Yes; a letter from Sebastian Mallory.’ ‘Ah! Is he coming, then?’ ‘He is coming--yes, but not alone,’ said Herr Süsmeyer, a smile of much satisfaction playing upon his face. He will bring his bride with him. What do you think of that? He says I must see her. But you say nothing; you did not know?’ ‘His bride!’ repeated Myles, in a low voice. ‘No, I did not know. But--when does he come?’ ‘In a few days. They are already at Cologne. They will travel through Düsseldorf and ----feld, and come here for two nights only. Then they are going on. It is their wedding tour. I have already given orders,’ continued the old man, ‘to receive them. I must make much of my friend Sebastian. It is as if a child of my own brought his bride to see me. I have ordered the guest-chambers to be prepared, which have not been used since the death of my blessed Amalie, my wife.’