im, taking his pen out of his
mouth, 'what do you make of four hundred and twenty-seven times three
thousand two hundred and thirty-eight?'

'Nay,' returned Nicholas, 'what do you make of my question first? I
asked you--'

'About the young lady,' said Tim Linkinwater, putting on his spectacles.
'To be sure. Yes. Oh! she's very well.'

'Very well, is she?' returned Nicholas.

'Very well,' replied Mr Linkinwater, gravely.

'Will she be able to go home today?' asked Nicholas.

'She's gone,' said Tim.

'Gone!'

'Yes.'

'I hope she has not far to go?' said Nicholas, looking earnestly at the
other.

'Ay,' replied the immovable Tim, 'I hope she hasn't.'

Nicholas hazarded one or two further remarks, but it was evident that
Tim Linkinwater had his own reasons for evading the subject, and that
he was determined to afford no further information respecting the fair
unknown, who had awakened so much curiosity in the breast of his young
friend. Nothing daunted by this repulse, Nicholas returned to the charge
next day, emboldened by the circumstance of Mr Linkinwater being in
a very talkative and communicative mood; but, directly he resumed the
theme, Tim relapsed into a state of most provoking taciturnity, and from
answering in monosyllables, came to returning no answers at all, save
such as were to be inferred from several grave nods and shrugs, which
only served to whet that appetite for intelligence in Nicholas, which
had already attained a most unreasonable height.

Foiled in these attempts, he was fain to content himself with watching
for the young lady's next visit, but here again he was disappointed.
Day after day passed, and she did not return. He looked eagerly at the
superscription of all the notes and letters, but there was not one among
them which he could fancy to be in her handwriting. On two or three
occasions he was employed on business which took him to a distance, and
had formerly been transacted by Tim Linkinwater. Nicholas could not help
suspecting that, for some reason or other, he was sent out of the way
on purpose, and that the young lady was there in his absence. Nothing
transpired, however, to confirm this suspicion, and Tim could not be
entrapped into any confession or admission tending to support it in the
smallest degree.

Mystery and disappointment are not absolutely indispensable to the
growth of love, but they are, very often, its powerful auxiliaries. 'Out
of sight, out of mind,' is