" he asked.

I took the pencil again: "Old associations make even the ugly Loke
interesting to me."

He sighed as he read those words. "I wish, Mr. Roylake, I could say the
same. Your interesting river frightens me."

It was needless to ask for the pencil again. My puzzled face begged for
an explanation.

"When you were in my room," he said, "you may have noticed a second
window which looks out on The Loke. I have got into a bad habit of
sitting by that window on moonlight nights. I watch the flow of the
stream, and it seems to associate itself with the flow of my thoughts.
Nothing remarkable, so far--while I am awake. But, later, when I get to
sleep, dreams come to me. All of them, sir, without exception connect
Cristel with the river. Look at the stealthy current that makes no sound.
In my last night's sleep, it made itself heard; it was flowing in my ears
with a water-music of its own. No longer my deaf ears; I heard, in my
dream, as well as you can hear. Yes; the same water-music, singing over
and over again the same horrid song: "Fool, fool, no Cristel for you; bid
her good-bye, bid her good-bye." I saw her floating away from me on those
hideous waters. The cruel current held me back when I tried to follow
her. I struggled and screamed and shivered and cried. I woke up with a
start that shook me to pieces, and cursed your interesting river. Don't
write to me about it again. Don't look at it again. Why did you bring up
the subject? I beg your pardon; I had no right to say that. Let me be
polite; let me be hospitable. I beg to invite you to come and see me,
when my room is purified from its pestilent smell. I can only offer you a
cup of tea. Oh, that river, that river, what devil set me talking about
it? I'm not mad, Mr. Roylake; only wretched. When may I expect you?
Choose your own evening next week."

Who could help pitying him? Compared with my sound sweet dreamless sleep,
what dreadful nights were his!

I accepted his invitation as a matter of course. When we had completed
our arrangements, it was time for me to think of returning to Trimley
Deen. Moving towards the door, I accidentally directed his attention to
the pier by which the boat-house was approached.

His face instantly reminded me of Cristel's description of him, when he
was strongly and evilly moved. I too saw "his beautiful eves tell tales,
and his pretty complexion change to a color which turned him into an ugly
man." He seized my arm, and p