sible on the face of the thing."

"Nothing is impossible to Yankees, Remington."

"This is. And now, Lewis, whence come you, and whither go?"

"From Weston, and to New York."

Here was a _denouement!_ We looked at him with new interest, and saw at
once, such was the force of imagination, the very eyes and eyebrows of
Gus Lewis. However, it proved afterwards to be only imagination. When we
told him we came from Weston only two days and a half before, the
conversation assumed the native style of New England, and for the next
quarter of an hour we talked of each other and each other's affairs.'
Mr. Lewis was delighted to see us, had stayed only an hour in Weston,
and there heard of our trip from Auguste,--profanely called Gus,--took
the box of maple-sugar in charge at once, laughed at the boy-like
direction without even a surname, and ended with recommending us to go
at once to Miss Post's, on Broadway, where himself and his wife were at
present boarding. All the particulars of life, character, and relative
interests were discussed between ourselves and Mr. Lewis with the
relish and zest of compatriots. I had forgotten how close a tie was that
of Yankee birth, and how like an unknown tongue our talk was to the
Englishman, till we stopped and turned to him to say something, and
found him fast asleep. Then I was glad that he hadn't heard my satirical
description of "donation-parties" at Weston, nor the account I gave of
our two boys, our salary of five hundred dollars, and the various
comical shifts we had to make to live comfortably on that sum and
support aged parents and graceless relations. Little touches told Mr.
Lewis the whole story. I knew very well that Mr. Remington would be
entirely abroad about such a social existence as ours in Weston, travel
he ever so long or widely.

Mr. Lewis had black eyes and hair, and bent like an habitual student. He
had a scar on his right eyebrow, which he had got by a fall, and by
which he had saved the life of Mr. Remington, who was a connection of
his wife's. This he told us, afterwards, and I amused myself with
drawing parallels between his face and his mind. One side was gentle,
sweet-humored, sentimental, with a touch of melancholy. The other,
disfigured with the scar, seemed to have been turned harsh, suspicious,
proud, reserved, and unrelenting. These were many qualities, all to
depend on a scar, to be sure; but they generally herd together, and he
might be one man or anot