ertheless, after a
moment. "What with my beard, and the lapse of time," thought he, "he
cannot know me." So he spoke,--

"I understand you have been visiting my children, sir. I hope you did
not find them seriously indisposed?"

"Mr. Vavasour?" says Tom, with a low bow.

"I am Mr. Vavasour!" But Elsley was a bad actor, and hesitated and
coloured so much as he spoke, that if Tom had known nothing, he might
have guessed something.

"Nothing serious, I assure you, sir: unless you are come to announce
any fresh symptom."

"Oh, no--not at all--that is--I was passing on my way to the quay, and
thought it as well to have your own assurance; Mrs. Vavasour is so
over-anxious."

"You seem to partake of her infirmity, sir," says Tom, with a smile
and a bow. "However, it is one which does you both honour."

An awkward pause.

"I hope I am not taking a liberty, sir; but I think I am bound to--"

"What in heaven is he going to say?" thought Elsley to himself,
feeling very much inclined to run away.

"Thank you for all the pleasure and instruction which your writings
have given me in lonely hours, and lonely places too. Your first
volume of poems has been read by one man, at least, beside wild
watchfires in the Rocky Mountains."

Tom did not say that he pitched the said volume into the river in
disgust; and that it was, probably, long since used up as house
material by the caddis-baits of those parts,--for doubtless there are
caddises there as elsewhere.

Poor Elsley rose at the bait, and smiled and bowed in silence.

"I have been so long absent from England, and in utterly wild
countries, too, that I need hardly be ashamed to ask if you have
written anything since 'The Soul's Agonies'? No doubt if you have, I
might have found it at Melbourne, on my way home: but my visit there
was a very hurried one. However, the loss is mine, and the fault too,
as I ought to call it."

"Pray make no excuses," says Elsley, delighted. "I have written, of
course. Who can help writing, sir, while Nature is so glorious, and
man so wretched? One cannot but take refuge from the pettiness of the
real in the contemplation of the ideal. Yes, I have written. I will
send you my last book down. I don't know whether you will find me
improved."

"How can I doubt that I shall?"

"Saddened, perhaps; perhaps more severe in my taste; but we will not
talk of that. I owe you a debt, sir, for having furnished me with
one of the most striking 'motif