He had evidently spoken truly, however, when he said he felt strangely oppressed, for his eyes wandered up the valley, far off to the remote Paint Ridge, yet he did not see the glittering Scioto, or how Summer sat enthroned in royal pomp upon the hills. There was a thoughtful, almost anxious expression on his face. Presently he added, in a tone of voice as if they might have been discussing the subject at the moment, and which showed his mind was still occupied wholly by the incident at the foundry,— “Miss Helen, had you ever seen that man before?” “What man?” she inquired. “The workman, you mean?” “Yes, the old moulder.” “No. I have often heard them speak of him. I rarely go to the foundry; it is gloomy, and the hands are so rough father does not like to have me come in contact with them in any way, so I do not know one from another. I did not recollect at first, but I remember now hearing him say that old Simlin was queer, that he was a miser, and that he lived all alone on the Spring Hill. But I am sure father did not know he was so feeble, or how he was losing his mind. I can’t help feeling sorry for him. It must be dreadfully sad, ignorant though he is, to grow old and have not a soul on the earth to care for him.” Again the gentleman turned to her, as she spoke, with a sudden emotion in his eyes that would have called the color to her cheeks had she seen it, but in another instant he had looked away, and the troubled cloud settled back once more upon his features. “The river _is_ beautiful,” he said, after a pause; “see how the fire dances down its surface.” He had dismissed the subject from their conversation, if not from his own thoughts. More than an hour later Helen sprang up with a conscious blush upon her face as the sound of approaching voices told her how the time had fled. Ah, for her at least it had been wafted by on silver wings! They both joined the party, and all went together to the house. There, almost immediately, Mr. Safford excused himself and went to his room. Shut in alone, the same anxious, troubled expression he had worn when he looked unconsciously up the river came back upon him as he walked thoughtfully to and fro across the floor. The incident at the foundry had affected him singularly. He could not throw off its depressing influence. Why, he asked himself—why did the face of the old man haunt him perpetually—the thin, wrinkled face, as it had looked at him with sudden surprise and terror struggling up through its watery eyes? Why did the cracked voice, with its accent of fright, ring constantly in his ears? If it were but the wild vagary of an unsettled mind, why should he give it any heed? “I am nervous,” he muttered to himself. “They said the man was crazy, and surely I never saw him before—no, I never saw him before. Then why should the sight of me have so excited him? Probably another stranger would have done the same. I am foolish—and they said the man was crazy—”