“Yes; his father, Van Buren Sluysdael, died, you know--a year after they left Greyport. The widow was left all the money in trust for Johnny, except about twenty-five hundred a year which he was in receipt of as a separate income, even as a boy. Well, a glib-tongued parson, a fellow by the name of Belcher, got round the widow--she was a desperate fool--and, by Jove! made her marry him. He made ducks and drakes of not only her money, but Johnny's too, and had to skip to Spain to avoid the trustees. And Johnny--for the Sluysdaels are all fools or lunatics--made over his whole separate income to that wretched, fashionable fool of a mother, and went into a stockbroker's office as a clerk.” “And walks to business before eight every morning, and they say even takes down the shutters and sweeps out,” broke in Circe impulsively. “Works like a slave all day, wears out his old clothes, has given up his clubs and amusements, and shuns society.” “But how about his health?” I asked. “Is he better and stronger?” “I don't know,” said Circe, “but he LOOKS as beautiful as Endymion.” ***** At his bank, in Wall Street, Bracy that afternoon confirmed all that Jason had told me of young Sluysdael. “But his temper?” I asked. “You remember his temper--surely.” “He's as sweet as a lamb, never quarrels, never whines, never alludes to his lost fortune, and is never put out. For a youngster, he's the most popular man in the street. Shall we nip round and see him?” “By all means.” “Come. It isn't far.” A few steps down the crowded street we dived into a den of plate-glass windows, of scraps of paper, of rattling, ticking machines, more voluble and excited than the careworn, abstracted men who leaned over them. But “Johnnyboy”--I started at the familiar name again--was not there. He was at luncheon. “Let us join him,” I said, as we gained the street again and turned mechanically into Delmonico's. “Not there,” said Bracy with a laugh. “You forget! That's not Johnnyboy's gait just now. Come here.” He was descending a few steps that led to a humble cake-shop. As we entered I noticed a young fellow standing before the plain wooden counter with a cake of gingerbread in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. His profile was before me; I at once recognized the long lashes. But the happy, boyish, careless laugh that greeted Bracy, as he presented me, was a revelation. Yet he was pleased to remember me. And then--it may have been embarrassment that led me to such tactlessness, but as I glanced at him and the glass of milk he was holding, I could not help reminding him of the first words I had ever heard him utter. He tossed off the glass, colored slightly, as I thought, and said with a light laugh:-- “I suppose I have changed a good deal since then, sir.” I looked at his demure and resolute mouth, and wondered if he had. YOUNG ROBIN GRAY.