cted little hare. These three unlucky defects of mine are not
excused, it seems, in a country gentleman (especially when he has dodged
a public reception to begin with). I think I got on best, upon the
whole, with the wives and daughters. The women and I always fell, sooner
or later, on the subject of Mrs. Blanchard and her niece. We invariably
agreed that they had done wisely in going to Florence; and the only
reason we had to give for our opinion was that we thought their minds
would be benefited after their sad bereavement, by the contemplation
of the masterpieces of Italian art. Every one of the ladies--I solemnly
declare it--at every house I went to, came sooner or later to Mrs. and
Miss Blanchard's bereavement and the masterpieces of Italian art. What
we should have done without that bright idea to help us, I really don't
know. The one pleasant thing at any of the visits was when we all shook
our heads together, and declared that the masterpieces would console
them. As for the rest of it, there's only one thing more to be said.
What I might be in other places I don't know: I'm the wrong man in the
wrong place here. Let me muddle on for the future in my own way, with my
own few friends; and ask me anything else in the world, as long as you
don't ask me to make any more calls on my neighbors."

With that characteristic request, Allan's report of his exploring
expedition among the resident gentry came to a close. For a moment
Midwinter remained silent. He had allowed Allan to run on from first to
last without uttering a word on his side. The disastrous result of
the visits--coming after what had happened earlier in the day; and
threatening Allan, as it did, with exclusion from all local sympathies
at the very outset of his local career--had broken down Midwinter's
power of resisting the stealthily depressing influence of his own
superstition. It was with an effort that he now looked up at Allan; it
was with an effort that he roused himself to answer.

"It shall be as you wish," he said, quietly. "I am sorry for what has
happened; but I am not the less obliged to you, Allan, for having done
what I asked you."

His head sank on his breast, and the fatalist resignation which had
once already quieted him on board the wreck now quieted him again. "What
_must_ be, _will_ be," he thought once more. "What have I to do with the
future, and what has he?"

"Cheer up!" said Allan. "_Your_ affairs are in a thriving condition,