We recalled many memories, Ann and I, as we stood in the empty and silent, but still sunlit yard, on my last visit. At one moment the past seemed everything, the present a dream; at another, the past seemed to have gone for ever. Trying, I suppose, to make myself believe that there had been no break, but only a gradual change, I asked Ann if things at Abercorran House had not been quieter for some time past. “Oh no,” said she, “there was always someone new dropping in, and you know nobody came twice without coming a hundred times. We had the little Morgans of Clare’s Castle here for more than a year, and almost crowded us out with friends. Then Mr--whatever was his name--the Italian--I mean the Gypsy--Mr Aurelius--stayed here three times for months on end, and that brought quite little children.” “Of course it did, Ann. Aurelius.... Don’t I remember what he was--can it be fifteen years ago? He was the first man I ever met who really proved that man is above the other animals _as an animal_. He was really better than any pony, or hound, or bird of prey, in their own way.” “Now you are _talking_, Mr Froxfield--Arthur, I _should_ say.” “I suppose I am, but Aurelius makes you talk. I remember him up in the Library reading that Arabian tale about the great king who had a hundred thousand kings under him, and what he liked most was to read in old books about Paradise and its wonders and loveliness. I remember Aurelius saying: And when he came upon a certain description of Paradise, its pavilions and lofty chambers and precious-laden trees, and a thousand beautiful and strange things, he fell into a rapture so that he determined to make its equal on earth.” “He is the first rich man I ever heard of that had so much sense,” said Ann. “Perhaps Aurelius would have done like that if he had been as rich as sin, instead of owing a wine-and-spirit merchant four and six and being owed half-a-crown by me. But he does not need it now, that is, so far as we can tell.” “What, Ann, is Aurelius dead?” “That I cannot say. But we shall never see him again.” “Why frighten me for nothing? Of course he will turn up: he always did.” “That is impossible.” “Why?” “He promised Mr Torrance he would write and wait for an answer every Midsummer day, if not oftener, wherever he might be. He has now missed two Midsummers, which he would not do--you know he could not do such a thing to Mr Torrance--if he was in his right mind. He wasn’t young, and perhaps he had to pay for keeping his young looks so long.” “Why? How old could he be?” I said quickly, forgetting how long ago it was that I met him first. “I know he is fifty,” said Ann. I did not answer because it seemed ridiculous and I did not want to be rude to Ann. I should have said a moment before, had I been asked, that he was thirty. But Ann was right. “Where was he last heard of, Ann?”