"Good-night, then, and good-bye, aunt!" said he, as he held her hand for a second; and that was the last that he saw of her for some considerable time. For a great change was about to take place in this young man’s position and circumstances, in his interests, and ambitions, and trembling hopes. He was about to enter wonderland—that so many have entered, stealthily and almost fearing—that so many remember, and perhaps would fain forget. Do any remain in that mystic and rose-hued region? Some, at least, have never even approached it; for its portals are not easily discoverable, are not discoverable at all, indeed, except by the twin torches of imagination and abolition of self. When he went up to his chambers the next morning he was surprised to find a card lying on the table; he had not expected a visitor in this secluded retreat. And when he glanced at the name, he was still more perturbed. What an opportunity he had missed! Perhaps Mr. Bethune had brought an informal little invitation for him—the first overture of friendliness? He might have spent the evening in the hushed, small parlour over the way, with those violin strains vibrating through the dusk; or, with the lights ablaze, he might have sate and listened to the old man’s tales of travel, while Maisrie Bethune would be sitting at her needle-work, but looking up from time to time—each glance a world’s wonder! And what had he had in exchange?—a vapid dinner-party; some talk about socialism; an invitation that he should descend into the catacombs of North of England politics and labour mole-like there to no apparent end; finally, a promise that if he would only marry the young lady of Mrs. Ellison’s choice—presumably one of her American friends—his bride should have some additional dowry to recommend her. What were all those distant schemes, and even the brilliant future that everybody seemed to prophesy for him, to the bewildering possibilities that were almost within his reach? He went to the window. The pots of musk, and lobelia, and ox-eye daisies, in the little balcony over there, and also the Virginia creeper intertwisting its sprays through the iron bars, seemed fresh: no doubt she had sprinkled them with water before leaving with her grandfather. And had they gone to Hyde Park as usual? He was sorely tempted to go in search; but something told him this might provoke suspicions; so he resolutely hauled in a chair to the table and set to work with his books and annotations—though sometimes there came before his eyes a nebulous vision, as of a sheet of silver-grey water and a shimmering of elms.