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“I grieve to say I have no more than that bottle of it. It was some I bought when I was ill and threatened with ague.”

“What profanation! anything would be good enough for ague. It is in a man’s days of vigorous health he merits cherishing. Let us console ourselves with Rodiger. Now, boy,” said he, as he cleared off a bumper from a large goblet, “I ‘ll give you some hints for your future, far more precious than this wine, good as it is. Gustave de Marsac, like Homer’s hero, can give gold for brass, and instead of wine he will give you wisdom. First of all for a word of warning: don’t fall in love with Sara. It’s the popular error down here to do so, but it’s a cruel mistake. That fellow that has the hemp-trade here, – what’s his name, – the vulgar dog that wears mutton-chop whiskers, and fancies he’s English because he gets his coats from London? I ‘ll remember his name presently, – he has all his life been proposing for Sara, and begging off – as matters go ill or well with the House of Oppovich; and as he is a shrewd fellow in business, all the young men here think they ought to ‘go in’ for Sara too.”

I should say here that, however distasteful to me this talk, and however willingly I would have repressed it, it was totally out of my power to arrest the flow of words which with the force of a swollen torrent came from him. He drank freely, too, large goblets of champagne as he talked, and to this, I am obliged to own, I looked as my last hope of being rid of him. I placed every bottle I possessed on the table, and, lighting my cigar, resigned myself, with what patience I could, to the result.

“Am I keeping you up, my dear Digby?” cried he, at last, after a burst of abuse on Fiume and all it contained that lasted about half an hour.

“I seldom sit up so late,” was my cautious reply; “but I must own I have seldom such a good excuse.”

“You hit it, boy; that was well and truly spoken. As a talker of the highest order of talk, I yield to no man in Europe. Do you remember Duvergier saying in the Chambre, as an apology for being late, ‘I dined with DeMarsac’?”

“I cannot say I remember that.”

“How could you? You were an infant at the time.” Away he went after this into reminiscences of political life, – how deep he was in that Spanish marriage question, and how it caused a breach, – an irreparable breach between Guizot and himself, when that woman, “you know whom I mean, let out the secret to Bulwer. Of course I ought not to have confided it to her. I know all that as well as you can tell it me, but who is wise, who is guarded, who is self-possessed at all times?”

Not entirely trustful of what he was telling me, and little interested in it besides, I brought him back to Fiume, and to the business that was now about to be confided to me.

“Ah, very true; you want your instructions. You shall have them, not that you ‘ll need them long, mon cher. Six months – what am I saying? – three will see it all up with; Hodnig and Oppovich.”

“What do you mean?” cried I, eagerly.

“Just simply what I say.”

It was not very easy for me to follow him here, but I could gather, amidst a confused mass of self-glorification, prediction, and lamentation over warnings disregarded, and such like, that the great Jew house of “Nathanheimer” of Paris was the real head of the firm of Hodnig and Oppovich.

“The Nathanheimers own all Europe and a very considerable share of America,” burst he out “You hear of a great wine-house at Xeres, or a great corn-merchant at Odessa, or a great tallow-exporter at Riga. It’s all Nathanheimer! If a man prospers and shows that he has skill in business, they ‘ll stand by him, even to millions. If he blunders, they sweep him away, as I brush away that cork. There must be no failures with them. That’s their creed.”

He proceeded to explain how these great potentates of finance and trade had agencies in every great centre of Europe, who reported to them everything that went on, who flourished, and who foundered; how, when enterprises that promised well presented themselves, Nathanheimer would advance any sum, no matter how great, that was wanted. If a country needed a railroad, if a city required a boulevard, if a seaport wanted a dock, they were ready to furnish each and all of them. The conditions, too, were never unfair, never ungenerous, but still they bargained always for something besides money. They desired that this man would aid such a project here, or oppose that other there. Their interests were so various and widespread that they needed political power everywhere, and they had it.

One offence they never pardoned, never condoned, which was any, the slightest, insubordination amongst those they supported and maintained. Marsac ran over a catalogue of those they had ruined in London, Amsterdam, Paris, Frankfort, and Vienna, simply because they had attempted to emancipate themselves from the serfdom imposed upon them. Let one of the subordinate firms branch out into an enterprise unauthorized by the great house, and straightway their acceptances become dishonored, and their credit assailed. In one word, he made it appear that from one end of Europe to the other the whole financial system was in the bands of a few crafty men of immense wealth, who unthroned dynasties, and controlled the fate of nations, with a word.

He went on to show that Oppovich had somehow fallen into disgrace with these mighty patrons. “Some say that he is too old and too feeble for business, and hands over to Sara details that she is quite unequal to deal with; some aver that he has speculated without sanction, and is intriguing with Greek democrats; others declare that he has been merely unfortunate; at all events, his hour has struck. Mind my words, three months hence they ‘ll not have Nathanheimer’s agency in their house, and I suspect you ‘ll see our friend Bettmeyer will succeed to that rich inheritance.”

Rambling on, now talking with a vagueness that savored of imbecility, now speaking with a purpose-like acuteness and power that brought conviction, he sat till daybreak, drinking freely all the time, and at last so overwhelming me with ‘strange revelations that I was often at a loss to know whether it was he that was confounding me, or that I myself had lost all control of right reason and judgment.

“You’re dead beat, my poor fellow,” said he at last, “and it’s your own fault. You ‘ve been drinking nothing but water these last two hours. Go off to bed now, and leave me to finish this bottle. After that I ‘ll have a plunge off the end of the mole, cold enough it will be, but no ice, and you ‘ll find me here at ten o’clock with a breakfast appetite that will astonish you.”

I took him at his word, and said “Good-night.”

CHAPTER XXIV. MY INSTRUCTIONS

My friend did not keep his self-made appointment with me at breakfast, nor did I see him for two days, when we met in the street.

“I have gone over to the enemy,” said he; “I have taken an engagement with Bettmeyer: six thousand florins and all expenses, – silver florins, mon cher; and if you’re wise,” added he in a whisper, “you ‘ll follow my lead. Shall I say a word for you?”

I thanked him coldly, and declined the offer.

“All right; stick to gratitude, and you’ll see where it will land you,” said he, gayly. “I’ve sent you half a dozen letters to friends of mine up yonder;” and he pointed towards the North. “You ‘ll find Hunyadi an excellent fellow, and the Countess charming; don’t make love to her, though, for Tassilo is a regular Othello. As for the Erdödis, I only wish I was going there, instead of you; – such pheasants, such women, such Tokay, their own vintage! Once you ‘re down in Transylvania, write me word whom you ‘d like to know. They ‘re all dear friends of mine. By the way, don’t make any blunder about that Hunyadi contract The people here will want you to break it, – don’t, on any account. It’s the finest bargain ever was made; splendid timber, magnificent bark, and the cuttings alone worth all the money.”

He rattled out this with his own headlong speed, and was gone before I well knew I had seen him.

That evening I was ordered to Herr Oppovich’s house to receive my last instructions. The old man was asleep on a sofa, as I entered, and Sara seated at a table by the fire, deeply engaged in accounts.

“Sit down, Herr Owen,” – she had ceased to call me Von Owen, – “and I will speak to you in a minute.”

I was not impatient at the delay, for I had time to gaze at her silken hair, and her faultless profile, and the beautiful outline of her figure, as, leaning her head on her hand, she bent over the table.

“I cannot make this come right, – are you clever at figures?” asked she.

“I cannot say it is my gift, but I will do my best to aid you.” And now we were seated side by side, poring over the same page; and as she had placed one taper finger next the column of figures, I did so likewise, thinking far less of the arithmetic than of the chance of touching her hand with mine.

“These figures are somewhat confusing,” she said. “Let us begin at the top, – fourteen hundred and six hundred, make two thousand, and twelve hundred, three thousand two hundred, – now is this a seven or a three?”

“I’d say a three.”

“I ‘ve called it a seven, because M. Marsac usually writes his sevens in this way.”

“These are De Marsac’s, then?” asked I.

“And why ‘De,’ may I ask?” said she, quickly; “why not Marsac, as I called him?”

“I took his name as he gave it me.”

“You know him, then? Oh, I had forgotten, – he called on you the night he came. Have you seen him since?”

“Only passingly, in the street”

“Had he time to tell you that he has been dismissed?”

“Yes; he said he was now in Mr. Bettmeyer’s office.”

“Shall I tell you why?” She stopped, and her cheek became crimson, while her eyes sparkled with an angry fire that actually startled me. “But let us finish this. Where were we?” She now leaned her head down upon her hands, and seemed overcome by her emotion. When she looked up again, her face was perfectly pale, and her eyes sad and weariful. “I am afraid we shall wake him,” said she, looking towards her father; “come into this room here. So this man has been talking of us?” cried she, as soon as we had passed into the adjoining room. “Has he told you how he has requited all my father’s kindness? how he has repaid his trustfulness and faith in him? Speak freely if you wish me to regard you as a friend.”

“I would that you might, Fräulein. There is no name I would do so much to win.”

“But you are a gentleman, and with noble blood. Could you stoop to be the friend of – ” Here she hesitated, and, after an effort, added, “A Jew?”

“Try me, prove me,” said I, stooping till my lips touched her hand.

She did not withdraw her hand, but left it in mine, as I pressed it again and again to my lips.

“He told you, then,” said she, in a half-whisper, “that our house was on the brink of ruin; that in a few weeks, or even less, my father would not face the exchange, – did he not say this?”

“I will tell you all,” said I, “for I know you will forgive me when I repeat what will offend you to hear, but what is safer you should hear.” And, in the fewest words I could, I related what Marsac had told me of the house and its difficulties. When I came to that part which represented Oppovich as the mere agent of the great Parisian banker, – whose name I was not quite sure of, – I faltered and hesitated.

“Go on,” said she, gently. “He told you that Baron Nathanheimer was about to withdraw his protection from us?”

I slightly bent my head in affirmation.

“But did he say why?”

“Something there was of rash enterprise, of speculation unauthorized – of – ”

“Of an old man with failing faculties,” said she, in the same low tone; “and of a young girl, little versed in business, but self-confident and presumptuous enough to think herself equal to supply his place. I have no doubt he was very frank on this head. He wrote to Baron Elias, who sent me his letter, – the letter he wrote of us while eating our bread. It was not handsome of him, – was it, sir?”

I can give no idea, not the faintest, of the way she said these few words, nor of the ineffable scorn of her look, while her voice remained calm and gentle as ever.

“No; it was not handsome.”

She nodded to me to proceed, and I continued, —

“I have told you nearly everything; for of himself and his boastfulness – ”

“Oh! do not tell me of that I am in no laughing mood, and I would not like to hear of it What did he say of the Hunyadi affair?”

“Nothing, or next to nothing. He offered me letters of introduction to Count Hunyadi; but beyond that there was no mention of him.”

She arose as I said this, and walked slowly up and down the room. I saw she was deep in thought, and was careful not to disturb or distract her. At last she opened a writing-desk, and took out a roll of papers fastened by a tape.

“These,” said she, “you will take with you, and carefully read over. They are the records of a transaction that is now involving us in great trouble, and which may prove more than trouble. M. Marsac has been induced – how, we shall not stop to inquire – to contract for the purchase of an extensive wood belonging to Graf Hunyadi; the price, half a million of francs. We delayed to ratify an agreement of such moment, until more fully assured of the value of the timber; and while we deliberated on the choice of the person to send down to Hungary, we have received from our correspondent at Vienna certain bills for acceptance in payment of this purchase. You follow me, don’t you?”

“Yes. As I understand it, the bargain was assumed to be ratified?”

“Just so.”

She paused; and, after a slight struggle with herself, went on, —

“The contract, legally drawn up and complete in every way, was signed; not, however, by my father, but by my brother. You have heard, perhaps, that I have a brother. Bad companionship and a yielding disposition have led him into evil, and for some years we have not seen him. Much misfortune has befallen him; but none greater, perhaps, than his meeting with Marsac; for, though Adolf has done many things, he would not have gone thus far without the promptings of this bad man.”

“Was it his own name he wrote?” asked I.

“No; it was my father’s,” and she faltered at the word; and as she spoke it, her head fell heavily forward, and she covered her face with her hands.

She rallied, however, quickly, and went on. “We now know that the timber is not worth one-fourth of this large sum. Baron Elias himself has seen it, and declares that we have been duped or – worse. He insists that we rescind the contract, or accept all its consequences. The one is hopeless, – the other ruin. Meanwhile, the Baron suspends farther relations with us, and heavy acceptances of ours will soon press for payment. I must not go into this,” said she, hurriedly. “You are very young to charge with such a mission; but I have great faith in your loyalty. You will not wrong our trust?”

“That I will not.”

“You will go to Graf Hunyadi, and speak with him. If he be – as many of his countrymen are – a man of high and generous feeling, he will not bring ruin upon us, when our only alternative would be to denounce our own. You are very young; but you have habits of the world and society. Nay, – I am not seeking to learn a secret; but you know enough to make you companionable and acceptable, where any others in our employ would be inadmissible. At all events, you will soon see the sort of man we have to deal with, and you will report to me at once.”

“I am not to tell him how this signature has been obtained?” asked I, awaiting the reply.

“That would be to denounce the contract at once,” cried she, as though this thought had for the first time struck her. “You know the penalty of a forgery here. It is the galleys for life. He must be saved at all events. Don’t you see,” cried she, eagerly, “I can give you no instructions. I have none to give. When I say I trust you, – I have told you all.”

“Has Herr Ignaz not said how he would wish me to act?”

“My father knows nothing of it all! Nothing. You have seen him, and you know how little he is able now to cope with a difficulty. The very sense that his faculties are not what they were overcomes him, even to tears.”

Up to this she had spoken with a calm firmness that had lent a touch of almost sternness to her manner, but at the mention of her poor father’s condition, her courage gave way, and she turned away and hid her face, but her convulsed shoulders showed how her emotion was overcoming her. I went towards her, and took her hand in both my own. She left it to me while I kissed it again and again.

“Oh, Sara,” I whispered rather than spoke, “if you knew how devoted I am to you, if you knew how willingly I would give my very life for you, you would not think yourself friendless at this hour. Your trust in me has made me forget how lonely I am, and how humble, – to forget all that separates us, even to telling that I love you. Give me one word – only one – of hope; or if not that, let your dear hand but close on mine, and I am yours forever.”

She never spoke, however, and her cold fingers returned no pressure to mine.

“I love you; I love you!” I muttered, as I covered her hand with kisses.

“There! Do you not hear?” cried she, suddenly. “My father is calling me.”

“Sara, Sara! Where is Sara?” cried the old man, in a weak, reedy voice.

“I am coming, dear father,” said she. “Good-bye, Digby; remember that I trust you!”

She waved me a farewell, and, with a faint, sad smile, she moved away. As she reached the door, however, she turned, and, with a look of kindly meaning, said, “Trust you in all things.”

I sprang forward to clasp her to my heart; but the door closed on her, and I was alone.

CHAPTER XXV. “ON THE ROAD” IN CROATIA

I passed half the night that followed in writing to my mother. It was a very long epistle, but, in my fear lest, like so many others, it should not ever reach her, it was less expansive and candid than I could have wished. Sara’s name did not occur throughout, and yet it was Sara’s image was before me as I wrote, and to connect my mother in interest for Sara was my uppermost thought. Without touching on details that might awaken pain, I told how I had been driven to attempt something for my own support, and had not failed.

“I am still,” I wrote, “where I started, but in so far a different position that I am now well looked on and trusted, and at this moment about to set out on a mission of importance. If I should succeed in doing what I am charged with, it will go far to secure my future, and then, dearest mother, I will go over to fetch you, for I will no longer live without you.”

I pictured the place I was living in, and its climate, as attractively as I was able, and said, what I verily believed, that I hoped never to leave it. Of my father I did not venture to speak; but I invited her, if the course of our correspondence should prove assured, to tell me freely all about her present condition, and where and how she was.

“You will see, dear mother,” said I, in conclusion, “that I write in all the constraint of one who is not sure who may read him. Of the accident by which the address I now give this letter reached me, I will tell when I write again. Meanwhile, though I shall not be here to receive it at once, write to me, to the care of Hodnig and Oppovich, and add, ‘to be forwarded.’”

I enclosed a little photograph of the town, as seen from the bay, and though ill done and out of drawing, it still conveyed some notion of the pretty spot with its mountain framework.

I had it in my head to write another letter, and, indeed, made about a dozen attempts to begin it. It was to Pauline. Nothing but very boyishness could have ever conceived such a project, but I thought – it was very simple of me! – I thought I owed it to her, and to my own loyalty, to declare that my heart had wandered from its first allegiance, and fixed its devotion on another. I believed – I was young enough to believe it – that I had won her affections, and I felt it would be dishonorable in me to deceive her as to my own. I suppose I was essaying a task that would have puzzled a more consummate tactician than myself, for certainly nothing could be more palpable than my failures; and though I tried, with all the ingenuity I possessed, to show that in my altered fortunes I could no longer presume to retain any hold on her affections, somehow it would creep out that my heart had opened to a sentiment far deeper and more enthralling than that love which began in a polka and ended at the railway.

I must own I am now grateful to my stupidity and ineptness, which saved me from committing this great blunder, though at the time I mourned over my incapacity, and bewailed the dulness that destroyed every attempt I made to express myself gracefully. I abandoned the task at length in despair, and set to work to pack up for my journey. I was to start at daybreak for Agram, where some business would detain me a couple of days. Thence I was to proceed to a small frontier town in Hungary, called Ostovich, on the Drave, where we owned a forest of oak scrub, and which I was empowered to sell, if an advantageous offer could be had. If such should not be forthcoming, my instructions were to see what water-power existed in the neighborhood to work saw-mills, and to report fully on the price of labor, and the means of conveyance to the coast. If I mention these details, even passingly, it is but to show the sort of work that was intrusted to me, and how naturally my pride was touched at feeling how great and important were the interests confided to my judgment. In my own» esteem, at least, I was somebody. This sentiment, felt in the freshness of youth, is never equalled by anything one experiences of triumph in after life, for none of our later successes come upon hearts joyous in the day-spring of existence, hopeful of all things, and, above all, hearts that have not been jarred by envy and made discordant by ungenerous rivalry.

There was an especial charm, too, in the thought that my life was no every-day common-place existence, but a strange series of ups and downs, changes and vicissitudes, calling for continual watchfulness, and no small amount of energy; in a word, I was a hero to myself, and it is wonderful what a degree of interest can be imparted to life simply by that delusion. My business at Agram was soon despatched. No news of the precarious condition of our “house” had reached this place, and I was treated with all the consideration due to the confidential agent of a great firm. I passed an evening in the society of the town, and was closely questioned whether Carl Bettmeyer had got over his passion for the Fraulein Sara; or was she showing any disposition to look more favorably on his addresses. What fortune Oppovich could give his daughter, and what sort of marriage he aspired to for her, were all discussed. There was one point, however, all were agreed upon, that nothing could be done without the consent of the “Baron,” as they distinctively called the great financier of Paris, whose sway, it appeared, extended not only to questions of trade and; money, but to every relation of domestic life.

“They say,” cried one, “that the Baron likes Bettmeyer, and has thrown some good things in his way of late.”

“He gave him a share in that new dock contract at Pola.”

“And he means to give him the directorship of the Viecovar line, if it ever be made.”

“He ‘ll give him Sara Oppovich for a wife,” said a third, “and that’s a better speculation than them all. Two millions of florins at least.”

“She’s the richest heiress in Croatia.”

“And does n’t she know it!” exclaimed another. “The last time I was up at Fiume, old Ignaz apologized for not presenting me to her, by saying, ‘Yesterday was her reception day; if you are here next Wednesday, I ‘ll introduce you.’”

“I thought it was only the nobles had the custom of reception days?”

“Wealth is nobility nowadays; and if Ignaz Oppovich was not a Jew, he might have the best blood of Austria for a son-in-law.”

The discussion soon waxed warm as to whether Jews did or did not aspire to marriage with Christians of rank, the majority opining to believe that they placed title and station above even riches, and that no people had such an intense appreciation of the value of condition as the Hebrew.

“That Frenchman who was here the other day, Marsac, told me that the man who could get the Stephen Cross for old Oppovich, and the title of Chevalier, would be sure of his daughter’s hand in marriage.”

“And does old Ignaz really care for such a thing?”

“No, but the girl does; she’s the haughtiest and the vainest damsel in the province.”

It may be believed that I found it very hard to listen to such words as these in silence, but it was of the last importance that I should not make what is called an éclat, or bring the name of Oppovich needlessly forward for town talk and discussion; I therefore repressed my indignation and appeared to take little interest in the conversation.

“You’ve seen the Fräulein, of course?” asked one of me.

“To be sure he has, and has been permitted to kneel and kiss her hand on her birthday,” broke in another.

And while some declared that this was mere exaggeration and gossip, others averred that they had been present and witnessed this act of homage themselves.

“What has this young gentleman seen of this hand-kissing?” said a lady of the party, turning to me.

“That it was always an honor conferred even more than a homage rendered, Madam,” said I, stepping forward and kissing her hand; and a pleasant laughter greeted this mode of concluding the controversy.

“I have got a wager about you,” said a young man to me, “and you alone can decide it. Are you or are you not from Upper Austria?”

“And are you a Jew?” cried another.

“If you’ll promise to ask me no more questions, I’ll answer both of these, – I am neither Jew nor Austrian.”

It was not, however, so easy to escape my questioners; but as their curiosity seemed curbed by no reserves of delicacy, I was left free to defend myself as best I might, and that I had not totally failed, I gathered from hearing an old fellow whisper to another, —

“You ‘ll get nothing out of him: if he ‘s not a Jew by birth, he has lived long enough with them to keep his mind to himself.”

Having finished all I had to do at Agram, I started for Ostovitz. I could find no purchaser for our wood; indeed every one had timber to sell, and forests were offered me on all sides. It was just at that period in Austria when the nation was first waking to thoughts of industrial enterprise, and schemes of money-getting were rife everywhere; but such was the ignorance of the people, so little versed were they in affairs, that they imagined wealth was to pour down upon them for the wishing, and that Fortune asked of her votaries neither industry nor thrift.

Perhaps I should not have been led into these reflections here if it were not that I had embodied them, or something very like them, in a despatch I sent off to Sara, – a despatch on which I had expended all my care to make it a masterpiece of fine writing and acute observation. I remember how I expatiated on the disabilities of race, and how I dwelt upon the vices of those lethargic temperaments of Eastern origin which seemed so wanting in all that energy and persistence which form the life of commerce.

This laborious essay took me an entire day to write; but when I had posted it at night, I felt I had done a very grand thing, not only as an intellectual effort, but as a proof to the Fräulein how well I knew how to restrict myself within the limits of my duties; for not a sentence, not a syllable, had escaped me throughout to recall thoughts of anything but business. I had asked for certain instructions about Hungary, and on the third day came the following, in Sara’s hand: —

“Herr Digby, – There is no mention in your esteemed letter of the 4th November of Kraus’s acceptance, nor have you explained to what part of Heydager’s contract Hauser now objects. Freights are still rising here, and it would be imprudent to engage in any operations that involve exportation. Gold is also rising, and the Bank discount goes daily higher. I am obliged to you for your interesting remarks on ethnology, though I am low-minded enough to own, I could have read with more pleasure whether the floods in the Drave have interfered with the rafts, and also whether these late rains have damaged the newly sown crops.

“If you choose to see Pesth and Buda, you will have time, for Count Hunyadi will not be at his chateau till nigh Christmas; but it is important you should see him immediately on his arrival, for his intendant writes to say that the Graf has invited a large party of friends to pass the festival with him, and will not attend to any business matters while they remain. Promptitude will be therefore needful. I have nothing to add to your instructions already given. Although I have not been able to consult my father, whose weakness is daily greater, I may say that you are empowered to make a compromise, if such should seem advisable, and your drafts shall be duly honored, if, time pressing, you are not in a position to acquaint us with details.

“The weather here is fine now. I passed yesterday at Abazzia, and the place was looking well. I believe the Archduke will purchase it, and, though sorry on some accounts, I shall be glad on the whole.

“For Hodnig and Oppovich,

“Sara Oppovich.

“Of course, if Count Hunyadi will not transact business on his arrival, you will have to await his convenience. Perhaps the interval could be profitably passed in Transylvania, where, it is said, the oak-bark is both cheap and good. See to this, if opportunity serves. Bieli’s book and maps are worth consulting.”

If I read this epistle once, I read it fifty times, but I will not pretend to say with what strange emotions. All the dry reference to business I could bear well enough, but the little passing sneer at what she called my ethnology piqued me painfully. Why should she have taken such pains to tell me that nothing that did not lend itself to gain could have any interest for her? or was it to say that these topics alone were what should be discussed between us? Was it to recall me to my station, to make me remember in what relation I stood to her, she wrote thus? These were not the nature I had read of in Balzac! the creatures all passion and soul and sentiment, – women whose atmosphere was positive enchantment, and whose least glance or word or gesture would inflame the heart to very madness; and yet was it net in Sara to become all this? Were those deep lustrous eyes, that looked away into space longingly, dreamfully, dazingly, – were they meant to pore over wearisome columns of dry arithmetic, or not rather to give back in recognition what they had got in rapture, and to look as they were looked into?