action. Mr. Inchbald felt
he could do nothing, and slowly went down stairs again to Mr.
Underhill. He found him still over the fire between the cakes
and the coffee. But Mr. Inchbald totally forgot to be
hospitable, and not a word was said till Winthrop came in and
he and the letter-bringer had wrung each other's hand, with a
brief 'how d' ye do.'

"How did you leave them, Mr. Underhill?"

"Well -- they were wantin' you pretty bad --"

"Did _she_ send for me?"

"Well -- no -- I guess not," said the other with something of
hesitancy, or of consideration, in his speech. Winthrop stood
silent a moment.

"I shall take horse immediately. You will go -- how?"

"May as well ride along with you," said Mr. Underhill,
settling his coat. "I'm wet -- a trifle -- but may as well ride
it off as any way. Start now?"

"Have you breakfasted?"

"Well -- no, I hain't had time, you see -- I come straight to
you."

"Mr. Inchbald, I must go to the office a few minutes -- will
you give my friend a mouthful?"

"But yourself, Mr. Landholm?"

"I have had breakfast."

Mr. Inchbald did his duty as host then; but though his guest
used despatch, the 'mouthful' was hardly a hungry man's
breakfast when Winthrop was back again. In a few minutes more
the two were mounted and on their way up the right bank of the
river.

They rode silently. At least if Mr. Underhill's wonted
talkativeness found vent at all, it was more than Winthrop was
able ever to recollect. He could remember nothing of the ride
but his own thoughts; and it seemed to him afterwards that
they must have been stunning as well as deafening; so vague
and so blended was the impression of them mixed up with the
impression of everything else. It was what Mr. Underhill
called 'falling weather'; the rain dropped lightly, or by
turns changing to mist hung over the river and wreathed itself
about the hills, and often stood across his path; as if to bid
the eye turn inward, for space to range without it might not
have. And passing all the other journeys he had made up and
down that road, some of them on horseback as he was now,
Winthrop's thoughts went back to that first one, when through
ill weather and discouragement he had left the home he was now
seeking, to enter upon his great-world career. Why did they
so? He had been that road in the rain since; he had been there
in all weathers; he had been there often with as desponding a
heart as brought him down that first time;