There was hardly a week passed that did not bring to Lester Conway some kindly token of Jim’s friendship. Conway was at first inclined to be angry at this, for he did not like to be patronized; but he soon came to look at it in a different light, and thanked his friends heartily for their kindness. Jim had developed a passion for books--at least he said so--was buying them by the square foot, he humorously wrote Conway, and must unload all pertaining to medicine on his friend; and as the process of unloading was unremitting, Conway soon had a library such as he had dreamed of, but never before possessed. They were very happy in their new home, Jim wrote, and were making so many new friends that their lonesomeness had nearly worn away. As for himself, his letters said he was very busy with nothing at all to do. There was so much to see in that great city that he was forever exploring it, and continually finding something new and astonishing. “All the sights are not pleasant ones,” he wrote sadly. “There are lights and shades, and I think the shades largely predominate. I am very thankful that I have the means to do some good, when so much is needed. I find myself swindled once in a while; but I don’t mind it much, for I find experience necessary even in trying to do good.” Conway could easily see that his friend had not yet become spoiled by his good fortune, and often pictured to himself the good-hearted, kindly fellow, whose money would only make him a mark for the unscrupulous, and whose good heart was only too likely to make him a ready prey. So his letters were mostly filled with sage advice and cynical sayings destined to save his friend from the many pitfalls of the metropolis. So the fall and winter passed away, and he waited with all the patience he could muster for the advent of summer. He knew they would return to the little farm--at least during the heated term--and he longed passionately for the time when he might at least see Norine again, even though they part again as hopelessly as ever. He went very often to the little cottage, and planned with Mrs. Higgins for making it a very bower by the time its mistress returned. There was some relief for him in this--some surcease of pain in touching the household treasures that he knew she valued, and in going over places dear to him by their associations with her. For the rest, he spent the day in labor and his nights in study, and waited for her coming. He was something of a trial to good Mrs. Allan in these days, for she was very fond of him, and it disturbed her to have him so restless and miserable. “I wish that Norine would go off and get married again, and be done with it,” the good lady thought fretfully. “Land knows I don’t see what he can find in her to make himself so miserable about. She is not nearly as handsome as my Lettie,” and Mrs. Allan would sigh grievously as she thought of the child of her heart, whom she might never see again.