"Oh, _certainly_, mother--anything to be on the popular side--only I think we might hang out a sign, and have the advantage of a little notoriety in the matter." There was this alleviating circumstance connected with Winny: She didn't mean a single one of the sharp and rather unsympathetic things that she said--and those that met her daily had come to understand this and interpret her accordingly. So Theodore arose from the table, greatly relieved in mind, and not a little gratified, that daughter, as well as mother, was willing to co-operate with him. Thus it was that Pliny found himself domiciled that very evening in Theodore's gem of a room--his favorite books piled with Theodore's on the table, his dressing-case standing beside Theodore's on the toilet-table opposite. "This is jolly!" he said, eagerly, surveying with satisfied eye all the neat appointments of the room, when at last everything had been arranged in accordance with his fastidious taste. "I declare I feel as if I had been made over new, or was somebody else altogether--ready to begin life in decent, respectable earnest!" And then he suddenly dropped into the arm-chair at his side, and buried his face in his hands. "Well now!" said Theodore, cheerily. "That's rather an April change, when one considers that it is only January. My dear fellow, what spell has come over you?" "I was reminded of Ben--I don't know how or why just then--except that thoughts of him are constantly coming to haunt, and sometimes almost madden me. Oh, Mallery! that is a past that can never, _never_ be undone!" He spoke in a hollow, dreary tone, and his slight form, enfeebled by disease, was quivering with emotion; yet what could his friend say? How try to administer comfort for such a grief as that? He remained entirely silent for a few moments, then offered the only consolation that he could bear. "The past is not yours, Pliny, but in a sense the present and future are. Let us have it such a future that it can be looked back upon with joy, when you and I have become gray-haired men. Now, Pliny, it is late. Will you join me in my Bible reading--since you and I are a family, can not we have family worship?" Pliny arose quickly. "I will not disturb your meditations," he said, a little nervously. "But you know my taste don't run in that line." Then he began a slow, monotonous walk up and down the room. Theodore opened his Bible without further entreaty or comment; but as Pliny watched the grave face, he could not fail to notice the disappointed droop of his friend's features, and the line of sadness that gathered about his sensitive mouth. Suddenly Pliny came to a stand-still, and finally went abruptly to Theodore's side. "Dear old fellow!" he said, impulsively--laying his hand with a familiar, almost caressing, movement on the arm of the other--"Would it afford you an unparalleled satisfaction if I should settle quietly down there, and read in that big book with you?"