“If you insist, it shall be so; but I promise you I'll not be of your mess, that's all. This is a glorious spot for turbot--and such oysters!” “Oysters are forbidden me, and don't let me have the torture of temptation. What a charming place this seems to be!--very wild, very rugged.” “Wild--rugged! I should think it is,” muttered Harcourt. “This pathway, though, does not bespeak much care. I wish our friend yonder would hold his lantern a little lower. How I envy you the kind of life you lead here,--so tranquil, so removed from all bores! By the way, you get the newspapers tolerably regularly?” “Yes, every day.” “That's all right. If there be a luxury left to any man after the age of forty, it is to be let alone. It's the best thing I know of. What a terrible bit of road! They might have made a pathway.” “Come, don't grow faint-hearted. Here we are; this is Glencore.” “Wait a moment. Just let him raise that lantern. Really this is very striking--a very striking scene altogether. The doorway excellent, and that little watch-tower, with its lone-star light, a perfect picture.” “You 'll have time enough to admire all this; and we are keeping poor Glencore waiting,” said Harcourt, impatiently. “Very true; so we are.” “Glencore's son, Upton,” said Harcourt, presenting the boy, who stood, half pride, half bashfulness, in the porch. “My dear boy, you see one of your father's oldest friends in the world,” said Upton, throwing one arm on the boy's shoulder, apparently caressing, but as much to aid himself in ascending the stair. “I'm charmed with your old Schloss here, my dear,” said he, as they moved along. “Modern architects cannot attain the massive simplicity of these structures. They have a kind of confectionery style with false ornament, and inappropriate decoration, that bears about the same relation to the original that a suit of Drury Lane tinfoil does to a coat of Milanese mail armor. This gallery is in excellent taste.” And as he spoke, the door in front of him opened, and the pale, sorrow-struck, and sickly figure of Glencore stood before him. Upton, with all his self-command, could scarcely repress an exclamation at the sight of one whom he had seen last in all the pride of youth and great personal powers; while Glencore, with the instinctive acuteness of his morbid temperament, as quickly saw the impression he had produced, and said, with a deep sigh,-- “Ay, Horace, a sad wreck.” “Not so, my dear fellow,” said the other, taking the thin, cold hand within both his own; “as seaworthy as ever, after a little dry-docking and refitting. It is only a craft like that yonder,” and he pointed to Harcourt, “that can keep the sea in all weathers, and never care for the carpenter. You and I are of another build.” “And you--how are you?” asked Glencore, relieved to turn attention away from himself, while he drew his arm within the other's.