As he went on over the hills, in the rude pioneer country of Northern Ohio, thirty-six or seven years ago, he thought sad-colored thoughts of the past, or, rather, he recalled sombre memories of the, to him, far-off time, when, with his mother and brothers, he formed one of a sobbing group around a bed whereon a gasping, dying man was vainly trying to say some last words; of afterwards awakening in the deep nights, and listening to the unutterably sweet and mournful singing of his mother, unable to sleep in her loneliness; of the putting away of his baby brother, and the jubilee when he was brought back; of the final breaking up of the family, and of his own first goings away; of the unceasing homesickness and pining with which he always languished for home in his young boy years; of the joy with which he always hurried home, the means by which he would prolong his stay, and the anguish with which he went away again.  His mother was to him the chief good.  For him, like Providence, she always was, and he could imagine no possible good, or even existence, without her—­it would be the end of the world when she ceased to be.  And he remembered all the places where he had lived, and the many times he had run away.  And then came the memory of Julia Markham, as she was years ago, when he lived in her neighborhood, and her sweet and beautiful mother used to intrust her to his care, in the walks to and from school, down on the State road—­Julia, with her great wonderful eyes, and world of wavy hair, and red lips; and then, as she grew into beautiful and ever more beautiful girlhood, he used to be more and more at Judge Markham’s house, and used to read to Julia’s mother and herself.  It was there that he discovered Shakespeare, and learned to like him, and Milton, whom he didn’t like and wouldn’t read, and the Sketch Book, and Knickerbocker’s History, and Cooper’s novels, and Scott, and, more than all, Byron, whom Mrs. Markham did not want him to read, recommending, instead, Young’s Night Thoughts, and Pollock’s Course of Time, and Southey—­the dear good woman!

And then came a time when he was in the store of Markham & Co., and finally was taken from the counter, because of his sharp words to customers, and set at the books, and sent away from that post because he illustrated them with caricatures on the margins, and smart personal rhymes.  Julia was sixteen, and as sweet a romping, hoydenish, laughing, brave, strong girl as ever bewitched the heart of dreaming youth; and he had taught her to ride on horseback; and then she was sent off, away “down country,” to the centre of the world, to Boston, where were uncles and aunts, and was gone, oh, ever and ever so long!—­half a lifetime—­nearly two years—­and came back; and then his thoughts became confused.  Then he thought of Judge Markham, and now he was sure that the Judge did not like him; and he remembered that Julia’s mother, as he came towards manhood, was kind and patronizing, and that when he went to say good-by to Julia, three months