‘Oh, Jerome,’ she murmured, in a half-tearful voice, ‘how much you must have had to suffer! I never knew till now what “ruin” and having no money might mean.’ He returned her kiss, saying gently, ‘Never mind, _Liebchen_! Things may turn out well in the end. And meantime, before we face Manchester and ruin, there is Elberthal to be passed.’ The following day they departed by the afternoon boat from Ober-Lahnstein for Cologne, thence to take the train to Elberthal. It was a gorgeous afternoon, at the very end of July. The sun was hot, the river was smooth, the scenery was glowing, the boat was full of gay parties of travellers of all nations, when Wellfield and his sister went upon it. A little after six they arrived at Elberthal, and went to an hotel. [Illustration] CHAPTER VII. LIFE’S FULLEST STREAM. The daylight lasts late in July. Though growing dusk in the house, it was yet broad daylight on the balcony of the room in which Jerome left his sister, when he set out to find Sara Ford’s house. It was still broad daylight out of doors, and the streets were thronged with pleasure-seekers, and with the feet of those on business intent. He had Sara’s address—Jägerstrasse, No. 42. He inquired the way there, and was directed to go through a pleasant green Hofgarten, whose cool avenues and great trees were just now glorified by the yellow rays of the setting sun. Somewhere, in the direction of that setting sun, he knew the Rhine wandered by the town. He had heard Sara describe how broad and strong was its course just there, and what a fascination it had for her, despite the unpicturesque, low, flat banks on either side. As he went along, his heart was light, despite the heavy load of cares and anxiety which hung over him. Sounds of music or singing greeted him wherever he went, as they do in those homely continental towns devoted to art and to sentiment. There was a pleasant, homely bustle going on. The town was small. One could not easily have lost oneself in it. To find the Jägerstrasse was no difficult matter, and once there it was easier still to discover No. 42, which was a great white house of many stories, with an arched passage running through it from front to back, and heavy iron gates, at present thrown back. He went into the passage, and to the side door, which had the names of the different inhabitants put up. ‘Miss S. Ford, _2te Etage_,’ he read, and pulled the bell twice. His summons was presently answered by a middle-aged woman with a strong, sensible, good English face, about whose whole aspect there was a harmony, and in whose dress there was an appropriateness and suitability which were nothing short of admirable.