chance!'

'To teach him, Josephine?'

'To be a helpful man, dear Paul.'

'As far as I can see, everybody in these days is wishing that he was
somebody else. That's what's the matter with Scheffer.'

'No,' said Josephine, quietly; 'it isn't. Not that. He wouldn't take any
man's place that lives. Ask him.'

'Of course he would say 'No.' He is proud as Lucifer.'

'I like his spirit.'

'Yes, and you like Cromwell's spirit, too. What in the world do you
suppose _he_ is going to do?'

'What?' asked Josephine, as if she did not know.

Paul surveyed her for a moment. _Did_ she not know? He could not decide.
He could look through most people, simple, earnest, penetrating fellow
that he was; but not through Josephine.

'Cromwell is going abroad,' he said, finally. 'He's been talking with a
sea captain for a month back. It's all out now. He's going to quit his
class, and take deck passage for Havre; going to the school of mines in
Paris, and, when through with that, on a mineral hunt from Africa to
Siberia. And he hasn't a cent of money! Perhaps that's the spirit you
like. Perhaps you won't object to my going with him.'

Josephine looked at Paul; she was not in the least alarmed. 'I like the
spirit well enough,' she said, 'but it isn't your kind; it would be
misery to do a thing in that way, for you. He has another 'fervor.''

'Yes, he has,' said Paul, with a deeper meaning than his sister guessed.

'You say I like a queer kind of spirit,' said she. 'I like independence.
But there's some great lack in me, there must be. I'm what you call too
prudent, I suppose. I seem unable to put out of sight the chances of
failure; and it can't be that people who venture a great deal think much
of them. I wish, as you do, that Harry had a little money--ever so
little--to fall back on. He never seems to think of accidents, or
sickness; but he is going to a strange country, and, to be sure, if he
is able to do exactly what he expects, he will succeed; and in the _end_
he will, I know, whatever happens. But it would be dreadful for him to
meet with misfortunes, though he laughs at my croaking. Everything is to
turn out just as he wants! But do things often, I wonder?'

'Yes, with August Scheffer--the only one I know of.'

'But you never _can_ know the struggle he passed through; it was
terrible. You call him a philosopher; he is so, because he found out
early how to fight the good fight. Nothing will ever look so alluring to
him