rs, and shouting "Victory!" or "Westminster Abbey!" or
perhaps both.

I have not yet decided what he shall be shouting, when the current of my
thoughts is turned by seeing some one--thank Heaven, not a footman, this
time!--advancing across the sward toward me. Surely I know the
nonchalant lounge of that walk--the lazy self-consciousness of that
gait, though, when last I saw it, it was not on dewy English turf, but
on the baking flags of a foreign town. It is Mr. Musgrave. Until this
moment I have ungratefully forgotten his existence, and all the
interesting facts he told me connected with his existence--how his lodge
faces ours--how he has no father nor mother, and lives by himself at an
abbey. Alas! in this latter particular, can I not feel for him? Am _I_
not living by myself at a _hall_?

Vick recognizes him at about the same moment as I do. Having first
sprung at him with that volubility of small but hostile _yaps_, with
which she strikes terror into the hearts of tramps, she has now--having
_smelt_ him to be not only respectable, but an acquaintance--changed her
behavior to a little servile whine and a series of high jumps at his
hand.

"It is you, is it?" cry I, springing up and running to meet him with an
elate sensation of company and sociability; "I had quite forgotten that
you lived near here. I'm _so_ glad!"

At my happy remark as to having been hitherto oblivious of his
existence, his face falls in the old lowering way I remember so well,
and that brings back to me so forcibly the Prager Strasse, the Zwinger,
the even sunshine, that favored my honey-moon; but at the
heartily-expressed joy at seeing him, with which I conclude, he cheers
up again. If he had known that I was in so reduced a state that I should
have enjoyed a colloquy with a chimney-sweep, and not despised
exchanging opinions with a dustman, he would not have thought my
admission worth much.

"So you have come at last," he says, holding my hand, and looking at me
with those long dark eyes that I would swear were black had not a
conscientious and thorough daylight scrutiny of them assured me long ago
that they were hazel.

"Yes," say I, cheerfully; "I told you you would catch sight of us,
sooner or later, if you waited long enough."

"And your tenants never dragged you in, after all?"

"No," say I; "we did not give them the chance. But how do _you_ know?
Were you peeping out of your lodge? If I had remembered that you lived
there, I wo