On the following day the final arrangements were made, and they started for the Continent. Miss Charlotte Carlaw had carried the whole matter through with such energy, and in so short a space of time, that there had been no time to inform the captain, but Comethup wrote him a long letter from Paris, on the first day of their arrival there, breaking to him, as gently as possible, the intelligence that they would not be likely to meet for at least three years. The boy thought sometimes, in those early days, that he would have been glad to get back again to the old-fashioned town in which he had been born, and to narrow down his world--which had widened so much recently, and was widening every day--to the captain and 'Linda and the few others who had known and loved him as a child. But he blamed himself the next instant for his ingratitude. They spent quite a long time in Paris--nearly two months--and at the end of the first month a surprising event occurred. He was passing one day through the large hall of the hotel at which they were stopping, with his aunt's hand resting on his arm, when he observed a young man, whose back was toward him, making some inquiries of a servant. The attitude and gestures seemed familiar. As he passed with his aunt toward the staircase he glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the young man had turned and was looking hesitatingly at him. It was his cousin, Brian Carlaw. Brian made a half-movement toward him, and then looked at the unconscious Charlotte Carlaw, made a comical grimace, and shook his head. As Comethup went on up the stairs, still looking back at the other in perplexity, Brian stepped forward softly and motioned to him to come down again and join him there. Comethup nodded, and continued his way upstairs. He conducted his aunt to her room, and then hurried down again to Brian. That young man received him rapturously, and airily plunged into an explanation. "Dear old boy, you know you wrote to me, like the good fellow you are, and told me where you were staying. I don't mind confessing that at first I was wild with envy. Thought I, 'Paris is the place for inspiration, for beauty, the very home of a poet.' And then I thought: 'No, my boy; you've got your work to do, and, gray skies or blue, sunshine or rain, you must do it.' And I do assure you, old fellow, that I went at it hammer and tongs; I did indeed. Can't we go into the smoking room or somewhere and have a chat?" Comethup led the way into a corner of the room and they sat down. He began to be a little frightened at the business--a little afraid of this harlequin cousin, who was forever springing upon him, and whose presence he must keep secret.