hich
was as difficult of ascent as a ladder, was through a closet by the side
of the donjon chimney, and the logs had been so arranged without and
within that the space occupied by the narrow and zigzag stairs was not
apparent. Up these stairs he took Julia, leaving her in a closet above.
As this closet was situated alongside the chimney, it opened, of course,
into the small corner room which I have before described, and in which
August was now lying. Andrew descended the stairs and entered the upper
story again by the outside ladder. He thought best to prepare August for
the coming of Julia, lest joy should destroy a life that was so
far wasted.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE INTERVIEW.

We left August on that summer day on the levee at Louisville without
employment. He was not exactly disheartened, but he was homesick. That
he was forbidden to go back by threats of prosecution for his
burglarious manner of entering Samuel Anderson's house was reason enough
for wanting to go; that his father's family were not yet free from
danger was a stronger reason; but strongest of all, though he blushed to
own it to himself, was the longing to be where he might perchance
sometimes see the face he had seen that spring morning in the bottom of
a sun-bonnet. Right manfully did he fight against his discouragement and
his homesickness, and his longing to see Julia. It was better to stay
where he was. It was better not to go back beaten. If he surrendered so
easily, he would never put himself into a situation where he could claim
Julia with self-respect. He would stay and make his way in the world
somehow. But making his way in the world did not seem half so easy now
us it had on that other morning in March when he stood in the barn
talking to Julia. Making your fortune always seems so easy until you've
tried it. It seems rather easy in a novel, and still easier in a
biography. But no Samuel Smiles ever writes the history of those who
fail; the vessels that never came back from their venturous voyages left
us no log-books. Many have written the History of Success. What
melancholy Plutarch shall arise to record, with a pen dipped in
wormwood, the History of Failure?

No! he would not go back defeated. August said this over bravely, but a
little too often, and with a less resolute tone at each repetition. He
contemned himself for his weakness, and tried, but tried in vain, to
form other plans. Had he known how much one's physical state has