but could obtain no
decided answer. The bookseller approved it, on the whole, and thought
it might make a very pretty volume, if he could be certain that it would
answer the expense of printing handsomely, and so forth. Charles asked
him how soon he could make up his mind: he really could not tell, but
Charles might call again in a week. Charles agreed to do so, and said
that he should wish to have the manuscript back at that time, or a
decisive answer. He was sorry not to be able to give Isabella a more
satisfactory account of her book; but he had previously warned her that
she would probably have need of much patience.

At the end of another week Charles went again. The bookseller had
thought no more of the matter; and Charles, not choosing to be any
longer put off in this way, insisted on the manuscript being restored to
him, and he could not help sighing as he pocketed it. It was not in the
most cheerful mood that he left the shop, and his eyes were bent on the
ground as he walked. On turning the corner of a street, however, he
looked up, and saw at a little distance, on the opposite pavement, a
gentleman approaching, who, he was pretty sure, could be no other than
Mr Rathbone. A second look convinced him that it was, and he could not
resist the impulse which the sight of his old friend inspired, to run
towards him. Mr Rathbone looked full at him, and then turned quickly
off the pavement, crossed the street, and pursued his way up another
street. Charles was quite certain that Mr Rathbone had seen and known
him, and had deliberately avoided him, and with this conviction a flood
of bitter feelings came over him which almost overwhelmed him. He
struggled against them, but tears would force their way, and his knees
even bent under him. There was a print-shop behind him, and he turned
round and leaned against the window, while he tried to recover himself.

This was indeed bitter enmity in return for what he could not even allow
to be an offence. This thought--that there was, in reality, no offence,
helped to restore his courage, and he was just dashing away the last
tear that remained upon his cheek, and turning away from the
picture-shop, on the beauties of which he had not bestowed a single
glance, when a person at his elbow spoke to him. Charles looked up. It
was Mr Blyth, who had purchased Isabella's work-bags and boxes.

"It is a curious thing, is it not?" said he to Charles, "that they
should have