From that day forward my influence over him was gone. He must have kept studiously out of my path—an easy thing for him to do, as he knew all my habits and places of resort. I used to try and persuade myself that I was guiltless of the result, whatever it might be; that “unstable as water” his character was past all guidance, and would in any case have drifted to the end that seemed to be in view. Yet it was hard to feel all the while that a strong, kind word from me that night might have nerved him to fresh energy. “And what about Bindo?” I asked of Eastonville one day. “Going to the dogs, and pretty rapidly, too, I’m afraid. The last time I saw him, he was with Hutchinson and all that crew. You know what comes of mixing with loafers like that. He wouldn’t look at me, though I tried hard to get a talk with him. He’d had more to drink, too, than a boy of seventeen can carry. The pity of it all. What a voice he had, and what a good fellow, too, at heart! How he nursed poor Harry! Few Samaritans of the present day would have given up six months of their time to spend them in a sick room. But I’m afraid it’s all up with him.” “Can’t Thorne do anything?” “No; Bindo fights shy of us all, and no wonder either. I am sure I should do the same in his place. If _you_ could only have got hold of him, and made him feel that we were rather glad than otherwise that our useless belongings had gone towards nursing Harry, he’d have got back his self-respect and been less shy of us. But our last hope went when _you_ failed. What the plague made you call him Eric instead of Bindo?” “Heaven only knows,” I answered, “or its Antipodes.” I told Thorne one day of Eastonville’s report, and asked him what he thought of it. “Just nothing at all,” he said. “He knows no more of what Bindo’s doing than all the rest of us. For myself, I believe he’s got work of some kind. I grant he’s seen sometimes at shady music halls with shady companions; and that’s what Eastonville means. But, after all, a fellow must have some one to speak to in the evening, especially if he’s at work all day; and if he’s lost his old friends he must fill up their places with the best he can. Besides, it’s quite possible that Bindo has grown wise enough by this time to make sure they do him no harm.” A few months later Thorne dropped in again. “Now you’ll be happy, I suppose; at least I am. Bindo starts to-morrow for Brazil in the _Magdalena_. We came across him to-day. He’s had work on hand all the year, though he kept it quietly to himself; and now he’ll be quit of all his old associations and be able to make another, and, I hope, a better start.”