ign life had wrought a marked difference in me. I had
not observed it so much in Paris; but here, amid old scenes and old
reminiscences, I seemed to meet the image of my former self, and
wondered at the change 'twixt now and then. I left home, timid, ignorant
of the world and its ways, reserved, silent, almost misanthropic. I came
back strengthened mentally and physically. Studious as ever, I could yet
contemplate an active career without positive repugnance; I knew how to
meet and treat my fellow-men; I was acquainted with society in its most
refined and most homely phases. I had tasted of pleasure, of
disappointment, of love--of all that makes life earnest.

As the time drew near when I should return to Paris, grief, and hope,
and that strange reluctance which would fain defer the thing it most
desires, perplexed and troubled me by day and night. Once again on the
road, the past seemed more than ever dream-like, and Paris and
Saxonholme became confused together in my mind, like the mingling
outlines of two dissolving views.

I crossed the channel this time in a thick, misting rain; pushed on
straight for Paris, and reached the Cite Bergere in the midst of a warm
and glowing afternoon. The great streets were crowded with carriages and
foot-passengers. The trees were in their fullest leaf. The sun poured
down on pavement and awning with almost tropical intensity. I dismissed
my cab at the top of the Rue du Faubourg Montmatre, and went up to the
house on foot. A flower-girl sat in the shade of the archway, tying up
her flowers for the evening-sale, and I bought a cluster of white roses
for Hortense as I went by.

Madame Bouisse was sound asleep in her little sanctum; but my key hung
in its old place, so I took it without disturbing her, and went up as if
I had been away only a few hours. Arrived at the third story, I stopped
outside Hortense's door and listened. All was very silent within. She
was out, perhaps; or writing quietly in the farther chamber. I thought I
would leave my travelling-bag in my own room, and then ring boldly for
admittance. I turned the key, and found myself once again in my own
familiar, pleasant student home. The books and busts were there in their
accustomed places; everything was as I had left it. Everything, except
the picture! The picture was gone; so Hortense had accepted it.

Three letters awaited me on the table; one from Dr. Cheron, written in a
bold hand--a mere note of condolence: on