his arrow, and wondering where the arrow had flown to, and wandering after it till he passed out of green fields to grassy rocks, and to a stony desert, where at last he found his arrow at an enormous distance from the shooting line, and there was the desert all about him, and the sweetest fairy ever imagined going to show herself to him in the ground under his feet.  In his absence I really hungered for him, and was jealous.

During this Arabian life, we sat on a carpet that flew to the Continent, where I fell sick, and was cured by smelling at an apple; and my father directed our movements through the aid of a telescope, which told us the titles of the hotels ready to receive us.  As for the cities and cathedrals, the hot meadows under mountains, the rivers and the castles-they were little more to me than an animated book of geography, opening and shutting at random; and travelling from place to place must have seemed to me so much like the life I had led, that I was generally as quick to cry as to laugh, and was never at peace between any two emotions.  By-and-by I lay in a gondola with a young lady.  My father made friends fast on our travels:  her parents were among the number, and she fell in love with me and enjoyed having the name of Peribanou, which I bestowed on her for her delicious talk of the blue and red-striped posts that would spout up fountains of pearls if they were plucked from their beds, and the palaces that had flown out of the farthest corners of the world, and the city that would some night or other vanish suddenly, leaving bare sea-ripple to say ‘Where? where?’ as they rolled over.  I would have seen her marry my father happily.  She was like rest and dreams to me, soft sea and pearls.  We entered into an arrangement to correspond for life.  Her name was Clara Goodwin; she requested me to go always to the Horse Guards to discover in what part of the world Colonel Goodwin might be serving when I wanted to write to her.  I, in return, could give no permanent address, so I related my history from the beginning.  ‘To write to you would be the same as writing to a river,’ she said; and insisted that I should drop the odious name of Roy when I grew a man.  My father quarrelled with Colonel Goodwin.  Months after I felt as if I had only just been torn from Clara, but she stood in a mist, irrecoverably distant.  I had no other friend.

Twelve dozen of splendid Burgundy were the fruit of our tour, to be laid down at Dipwell farm for my arrival at my majority, when I should be a legal man, embarked in my own ship, as my father said.  I did not taste the wine.  ‘Porter for me that day, please God!’ cried Mrs. Waddy, who did.  My father eyed her with pity, and ordered her to send the wine down to Dipwell, which was done.  He took me between his knees, and said impressively, ’Now, Richie, twelve dozen of the best that man can drink await you at the gates of manhood.  Few fathers can say that to their sons, my boy!