n appeared to me, would be in itself an inspiration through all the
days to come."

There was silence for a space, and then John continued:--

"Have you found it on the map, yet?"

"What, please?"

"Kedarville!" with bitter emphasis.

"Oh! certainly not."

"It may be a little island out there somewhere, you know," delivered with
the effect of a masterpiece.

"Yes; or a lighthouse, possibly."

I saw that John wished he had thought of that himself. He became dejected
again. Then, presently, he threw oil the cloak of bitterness which sat so
ill on him, and, resuming his usual kindliness and benignity of manner,
succeeded in making himself unconsciously tantalizing.

"If you do find it," he said; "and if you--if you conclude to stay for
any length of time, I think I will go down some time this winter and hunt
you up."

"If you do, John Cable," I answered, with unaccountable warmth; "I'll
never forgive you as long as I live--never."

At Hartford, John took the train for Boston, too. We were very old
friends. Latterly, we had read Shakespeare together at the Newtown
Literary Club. We concluded not to quarrel for the rest of the way. I
had an influx of gay spirits, and John was almost without exception
"nice."

There were several hours to wait in Boston before the train on the Old
Colony road would go out. We had dinner (I little realized how long it
would be before I should eat again), and John tamely suggested driving
about to look at some of the places of interest. I assured him that
there was nothing so dispiriting as looking at places of interest, and
he answered, cheerfully, after some moments of thought, that we could
"shut our eyes when we went by them, then."

I had reason to dread a decline of spirits. Mine were rapidly on the
wane. By the time we stopped at the Old Colony _depot_ they were low,
indeed. And the hardest of all was, that I would not, for my life, let
my companion know. It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and already
quite dark. The atmosphere was heavy and chill; the sky ominous with
clouds. I had an unknown journey yet to take in search of an unknown
destination. The car into which I got on the Cape-bound train was dismal
and weird-seeming enough.

"I wish, if you must go, you would let me see you to the end of this,"
said John.

I answered, laughing, with an unnecessary tinge of defiance in my tone.
It would have been so much easier to cry. I thought, "If John would only
try to