It was late that night when Maltravers went to bed--and as he passed
through the narrow corridor that led to his chamber he heard a light
step flying before him, and caught the glimpse of a female figure
escaping through a distant door. "The silly child," thought he, at once
divining the cause; "she has been listening to my singing. I shall scold
her." But he forgot that resolution.

The next day, and the next, and many days passed, and Maltravers saw but
little of the pupil for whose sake he had shut himself up in a country
cottage, in the depth of winter. Still he did not repent his purpose,
nor was he in the least tired of his seclusion--he would not inspect
Alice's progress, for he was certain he should be dissatisfied with its
slowness--and people, however handsome, cannot learn to read and write
in a day. But he amused himself, notwithstanding. He was glad of an
opportunity to be alone with his own thoughts, for he was at one of
those periodical epochs of life when we like to pause and breathe a
while, in brief respite from that methodical race in which we run to the
grave. He wished to re-collect the stores of his past experience, and
repose on his own mind, before he started afresh upon the active world.
The weather was cold and inclement; but Ernest Maltravers was a hardy
lover of nature, and neither snow nor frost could detain him from
his daily rambles. So, about noon, he regularly threw aside books
and papers, took his hat and staff, and went whistling or humming his
favourite airs through the dreary streets, or along the bleak waters, or
amidst the leafless woods, just as the humour seized him; for he was not
an Edwin or Harold, who reserved speculation only for lonely brooks and
pastoral hills. Maltravers delighted to contemplate nature in men as
well as in sheep or trees. The humblest alley in a crowded town had
something poetical for him; he was ever ready to mix in a crowd, if it
were only gathered round a barrel-organ or a dog-fight, and listen to
all that was said and notice all that was done. And this I take to be
the true poetical temperament essential to every artist who aspires to
be something more than a scene-painter. But, above all things, he was
most interested in any display of human passions or affections; he
loved to see the true colours of the heart, where they are most
transparent--in the uneducated and poor--for he was something of an
optimist, and had a hearty faith in the loveliness