As Mr. Echlin walked on, nodding to an acquaintance here, exchanging a word or two there, his mind was pursuing some such train of thought as this:—How fine the weather was; it was a pleasure to breathe. This time last year Edward had been by his side; it was on the 18th of June; he remembered it because he had made a little excuse for the extravagance, saying that we ought not to forget the anniversary of Waterloo; and they had stopped to buy the first basket of strawberries. How little had either of them thought that the course of their quiet life would so soon be broken! It was a dismal thing to think that he had let him go to Rome at that time of the year. But then he seemed so strong; nothing ever ailed him. Dr. Dickenson said, indeed, that he had no reserve force—weak vital energy, like his dear mother. To wish him “good-bye” for a six weeks’ holiday, and never to see him alive again! Well, well, it was sad. Such a son, too, and with all his future so easy before him! Well, well, it wouldn’t be so very long that he would have to survive him; he was almost sixty; it could not be so very long. And now he had Mark Fenner. Strange that all the time Edward was with him he had never thought of going down to Rosenhurst to see James and poor Margaret. And then his thoughts carried him to the little cottage at the rectory gate, where the two women lived who must miss their good son and brother so much, and who must be so much missed by him. Thus meditating, he reached his own door, which he opened, according to his custom, with a latchkey, and passed down the cool passage into the large, cool, but rather sombre dining-room. The table was laid for two, the silver and glass shining on the white damask, while the old butler stood with his smile of welcome by the shining mahogany sideboard, whereon was displayed the usual row of bottles—port, sherry, and claret, with a dessert of early strawberries and biscuits. It was all very comfortable, but just a trifle dreary; so, at least, Miles thought it must be to the young man who was now knocking at the door, who was to use the second knife and fork and be his companion all the evening. At the cottage at Rosenhurst what would the young man’s mother and sister be doing now? Perhaps sitting down to their modest meal, waited on by the little country damsel with round eyes and rosy cheeks; perhaps going through the more stately but rather dismal ceremonial of “dining at the rectory.”