ng," said the man, with again a glance,
a very benign one, of curiosity. "I should say, your eye was a
lawyer and your mouth a clergyman."

"You can't tell what a man is when he is as wet as I am," said
Winthrop.

"Can't tell what he's goin' to be, nother. Well, if the rain
don't stop, we will, that's one thing."

The rain did not stop; and though the coach did, it was not
till evening had set in. And that was too late. The wet and
cold had wrought for more days than one; they brought on
disease from which even Winthrop's strong frame and spirit
could not immediately free him. He lay miserably ill all the
next day and the next night, and yet another twelve hours; and
then finding that his dues paid would leave him but one dollar
unbroken, Winthrop dragged himself as he might out of bed and
got into the stage-coach for Mannahatta which set off that
same evening.

CHAPTER XVI.

I reckon this always -- that a man is never undone till he be
hanged; nor never welcome to a place, till some certain shot
be paid, and the hostess say, welcome.
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

What a journey that was, of weariness and pain and strong
will. Unfit, and almost unable to travel, empty of means and
resources almost alike, he would go, -- and he was going; and
sheer determination stood in the place and filled the want of
all things beside. It was means and resources both; for both
are at the command of him who knows how to command them. But
though the will stand firm, it may stand very bare of cheering
or helping thoughts; and so did Winthrop's that live-long
night. There was no wavering, but there was some sadness that
kept him company.

The morning broke as cheerless as his mood. It had rained
during the night and was still raining, or sleeting, and
freezing as fast as it fell. The sky was a leaden grey; the
drops that came down only went to thicken the sheet of ice
that lay upon everything. No face of the outer world could be
more unpromising than that which slowly greeted him, as the
night withdrew her veil and the stealthy steps of the dawn
said that no bright day was chasing her forward. Fast enough
it lighted up the slippery way, the glistening fences, the
falling sleet which sheathed fields and houses with glare ice.
And the city, when they came to it, was no better. It was
worse; for the dolefulness was positive here, which before in
the broad open country was only negative. The icy sheath was
now upon things les