Crowther gave one of his complacent laughs; and having induced Curtis to accept an invitation for the following day at dinner, he took the portmanteau under his arm and withdrew. He had scarcely descended the stairs when Dan found the door unlocked, and proceeded to pay his visit to Curtis, his mind full of all that he had just overheard, and wondering at the many strange things he had been a listener to. When MacNaghten entered, he found Curtis sitting at a table, with his head resting on his hand, and looking like one deeply engaged in thought. Dan saluted him twice, without obtaining a reply, and at last said,-- “They said that you had a visitor this morning, and so I have been waiting for some time to see you.” The other nodded assentingly, but did not speak. “You are, perhaps, too much tired now,” said Dan, in a kind voice, “for much talking. Come and have a turn in the open air; it will refresh you.” Curtis arose and took his hat, without uttering a word. “You are a good walker, Curtis,” said MacNaghten, as they reached the street. “What say you if we stroll down to Harold's Cross, and eat our breakfast at the little inn they call 'The Friar'?” “Agreed,” muttered the other, and walked along at his side, without another word; while Dan, to amuse his companion, and arouse him from the dreary stupor that oppressed him, exerted himself in various ways, recounting the popular anecdotes of the day, and endeavoring, so far as might be, to entertain him. It was soon, however, evident that Curtis neither heard nor heeded the efforts the other was making, for he continued to move along with his head down, mumbling at intervals to himself certain broken and incoherent words. At first, MacNaghten hoped that this moody dejection would pass away, and his mind recover its wonted sharpness; but now he saw that the impression under which he labored was no passing or momentary burden, but a heavy load that weighed wearily on his spirits. “I am afraid you are scarcely so well as usual to-day?” asked Dan, after a long interval of silence between them. “I have a pain hereabouts,--it is not a pain either, but I feel uneasy,” said Curtis, pushing his hat back from his forehead, and touching his temple with his finger. “It will pass away with the fresh air and a hearty breakfast, I hope. If not, I will see some one on our return. Who is your doctor?” “My doctor! You ask a man who has lived eighty-four years who is his doctor! That nature that gave him a good stout frame; the spirit that told him what it could, and what it could not, bear,--these, and a hearty contempt for physic and all that live by it, have guided me so far, and you may call them my doctors if you wish.”