Minver continued to address Wanhope, without regarding Rulledge. "My uncle told my father that some sort of psychical change, which he could not describe, but which he was as conscious of as if it were physical, took place within him as he came in sight of his house--" "Yes," Wanhope prompted. "He had driven down from the canal-packet in the old omnibus which used to meet passengers and distribute them at their destinations in town. All the way to his house he was still under the doom as regarded himself, but bewildered that he should be getting home safe and well, and he was refusing his escape, as it were, and then suddenly, at the sight of the familiar house, the change within him happened. He looked out of the omnibus window and saw a group of neighbors at his gate. As he got out of the omnibus, my father took him by the hand, as if to hold him back a moment. Then he said to my father, very quietly, 'You needn't tell me: my wife is dead.'" There was an appreciable pause, in which we were all silent, and then Rulledge demanded, greedily, "And was she?" "Really, Rulledge!" I could not help protesting. Minver asked him, almost compassionately and with unwonted gentleness, as from the mood in which his reminiscence had left him: "You suspected a hoax? She had died suddenly the night before while she and my cousin were getting things ready to welcome my uncle home in the morning. I'm sorry you're disappointed," he added, getting back to his irony. "Whatever," Rulledge pursued, "became of the little girl?" "She died rather young; a great many years ago; and my uncle soon after her." Rulledge went away without saying anything, but presently returned with the sandwich which he had apparently gone for, while Wanhope was remarking: "That want of definition in the presentiment at first, and then its determination in the new direction by, as it were, propinquity--it is all very curious. Possibly we shall some day discover a law in such matters." Rulledge said: "How was it your boyhood was passed in the Middle West, Minver? I always thought you were a Bostonian." "I was an adoptive Bostonian for a good while, until I decided to become a native New-Yorker, so that I could always be near to you, Rulledge. You can never know what a delicate satisfaction you are." Minver laughed, and we were severally restored to the wonted relations which his story had interrupted. III CAPTAIN DUNLEVY'S LAST TRIP