ing green leaves to see if the lilies
were in bloom.

But the garden-gate, like the house door, was closed upon him and seemed
to repeat the fateful word--Nevermore.

Whither should he turn his steps? To Mr. Allan's office?--Never!

His intention had been to submit himself to Mr. Allan as far as his
self-respect would let him. To consult him in regard to the literary
career he felt himself committed to now that (as he recalled with
satisfaction) the bridges between him and any other profession were
burnt behind him. His own plan, upon which he was resolved to ask Mr.
Allan's opinion, would be to seek a position in the line of journalism
which would give him a living while he was waiting for his more
ambitious work to find buyers.

But since the interview with Mrs. Allan he realized the folly of this
dream.

Then, whither should he go?--To the chums of his boyhood?--Rob Stanard,
Dick Ambler, Rob Sully, Jack Preston, where were they?--Good, dear
friends they had been, but it seemed so long since they had played
together! What should they find to say to each other now? They were busy
with their various avocations and interests--what room in their hearts
and homes could there be for a wanderer like himself?

At the age of one and twenty, at the springtime of his life, as of the
year--he felt himself to be as friendless, as much a stranger in the
city which he called home, as Rip Van Winkle after his long sleep had
felt in his. The only spots toward which he could turn with any
confidence for sympathy were those two quiet cities within this city
where lay his loved and lovely dead--"The doubly dead in that they died
so young."

"How different my life would be if they had lived!" he murmured to the
flowers.

Yet how fair was this world in which he had no place--even to a mere
looker-on. How fair was this mansion, in its setting of April green and
bloom, which had once owned him as its young--its future master. Above
it Hope stretched her shining wings, but the hope was not for him. For
him the closed door and the closed gate said only, "no more--nevermore."

But whither should he go?--whither?

As he turned from the garden and walked slowly, aimlessly, down the
street, his great grey eyes fixed ponderingly upon the breaking clouds,
a rainbow--bright symbol of promise--spanned the heavens. His eyes
widened, his lips parted at the wonder and the beauty and the suddenness
of it.

Whither should he go? Behold an an