solitude, where every association was of melancholy, every object a text for sad reflections.  Lost in these thoughts I sat down beside the window, and heeded not the old man as he noiselessly left the room.  My thoughts ran on over the strange phases in which life presents itself, and how little after all external influences have to do with that peace of mind whose origin is within.  The Indian, whose wigwam is beside the cataract, heeds not its thunders, nor feels its sprays as they fall in everlasting dews upon him; the Arab of the desert sees no bleakness in those never ending plains, upon whose horizon his eye has rested from childhood to age.  Who knows but he who inhabits this lonely dwelling may have once shone in the gay world, mixing in its follies, tasting of its fascination; and to think that now —­the low murmurs of the pine tops, the gentle rustle of the water through the rank grass, and my own thoughts combining, overcame me at length, and I slept—­how long I know not; but when I awoke, certain changes about showed me that some length of time had elapsed; a gay wood fire was burning on the hearth; an ample breakfast covered the table; and the broadsheet of the “Times” newspaper was negligently reposing in the deep hollow of an arm chair.  Before I had well thought how to apologize for the cool insouciance of my intrusion, the door opened, and a tall, well built man entered; his shooting jacket and gaiters were evidence of his English origin, while a bushy moustache and most ample “Henri quatre” nearly concealed features, that still were not quite unknown to me; he stopped, looked steadily at me, placed a hand on either shoulder, and calling out, “Harry—­Harry Lorrequer, by all that’s glorious!” rushed from the room in a transport of laughter.

If my escape from the gallows depended upon my guessing my friend, I should have submitted to the last penalty of the law; never was I so completely nonplussed.  Confound him what does he mean by running away in that fashion.  It would serve him right were I to decamp by one of the windows before he comes back; but hark! some one is approaching.

“I tell you I cannot be mistaken,” said the man’s voice from without.

“Oh, impossible!” said a lady-like accent that seemed not heard by me for the first time.

“Judge for yourself; though certainly the last time you saw him may confuse your memory a little.”

“What the devil does he mean by that?” said I, as the door opened, and a very beautiful young woman came forward, who, after a moment’s hesitation, called out—­

“True, indeed, it is Mr. Lorrequer, but he seems to have forgotten me.”

The eyes, the lips, the tone of the voice, were all familiar.  What! can it be possible?  Her companion who had now entered, stood behind her, holding his sides with ill-suppressed mirth; and at length called out—­

“Harry, my boy, you scarcely were more discomposed the last morning we parted, when the yellow plush—­”