g yes. But I may have mistrusted,
too, on my part. No matter just now. We were speaking of the Junction
last time. I have passed hours there since the day before yesterday."

"Are you now the gentleman for Somewhere?" she asked with a smile.

"Certainly for Somewhere; but I don't yet know Where. You would never
guess what I am travelling from. Shall I tell you? I am travelling from
my birthday."

Her hands stopped in her work, and she looked at him with incredulous
astonishment.

"Yes," said Barbox Brothers, not quite easy in his chair, "from my
birthday. I am, to myself, an unintelligible book with the earlier
chapters all torn out, and thrown away. My childhood had no grace of
childhood, my youth had no charm of youth, and what can be expected from
such a lost beginning?" His eyes meeting hers as they were addressed
intently to him, something seemed to stir within his breast, whispering:
"Was this bed a place for the graces of childhood and the charms of youth
to take to kindly? Oh, shame, shame!"

"It is a disease with me," said Barbox Brothers, checking himself, and
making as though he had a difficulty in swallowing something, "to go
wrong about that. I don't know how I came to speak of that. I hope it
is because of an old misplaced confidence in one of your sex involving an
old bitter treachery. I don't know. I am all wrong together."

Her hands quietly and slowly resumed their work. Glancing at her, he saw
that her eyes were thoughtfully following them.

"I am travelling from my birthday," he resumed, "because it has always
been a dreary day to me. My first free birthday coming round some five
or six weeks hence, I am travelling to put its predecessors far behind
me, and to try to crush the day--or, at all events, put it out of my
sight--by heaping new objects on it."

As he paused, she looked at him; but only shook her head as being quite
at a loss.

"This is unintelligible to your happy disposition," he pursued, abiding
by his former phrase as if there were some lingering virtue of
self-defence in it. "I knew it would be, and am glad it is. However, on
this travel of mine (in which I mean to pass the rest of my days, having
abandoned all thought of a fixed home), I stopped, as you have heard from
your father, at the Junction here. The extent of its ramifications quite
confused me as to whither I should go, _from_ here. I have not yet
settled, being still perplexed among so many roa