to rush back, and catch Miss Baker and Caroline at Jaffa.
He would have done so as soon as he quitted Nazareth, only that he
was ashamed.

About a fortnight after his father's departure, he found himself at
Damascus, and in another week, he was stepping on board the packet
at Beyrout. When leaving Palestine, that land of such wondrous
associations, his feelings were not altogether consolatory. He had at
one moment acknowledged what he believed to be a spiritual influence
within him, and yielding himself to it, had spoken of devoting his
life to a high and holy purpose. He had, indeed, spoken only to
himself, and the wound to his pride was therefore the less. But his
high and holy purpose had been blown to the winds by a few words from
a pair of ruby lips, by one glance of scorn from a pair of bright
eyes. And he had so yielded, even though those lips would acknowledge
no love for him; though those eyes would not look on him kindly. He
could not be proud of his visit to the Holy Land; and yet he felt a
longing to linger there. It might be, that if he would return once
more to that mount, look once again on Sion and the temple, the
spirit might yet get the better of the flesh. But, alas! he had to
own to himself that he had now hardly a wish that the spirit should
predominate. The things of the world were too bright to be given up.
The charms of the flesh were too strong for him. With a sigh, he
looked back for the last time from Mount Hermon, stretched out his
arms once more towards Jerusalem, said one farewell in his heart as
his eye rested for a moment on the distant glassy waters of Galilee,
and then set his horse's head towards Damascus.

When a traveller in these railroad days takes leave of Florence,
or Vienna, or Munich, or Lucerne, he does so without much of the
bitterness of a farewell. The places are now comparatively so near
that he expects to see them again, or, at any rate, hopes that he
may do so. But Jerusalem is still distant from us no Sabbath-day's
journey. A man who, having seen it once, takes his leave, then sees
it probably for the last time. And a man's heart must be very cold
who can think of Palestine exactly as of any other land. It is not
therefore surprising that Bertram was rather sad as he rode down the
further side of Mount Hermon.

At Constantinople, Sir Lionel and George again met, and our hero
spent a pleasant month there with his father. It was still spring,
the summer heats had har