and more affectionate
creature ever breathed the breath of life. He had not been understood in
his own little circle; there had been a want of sympathy with him,
and even a want of knowledge of him, at home. Amelius, popular with
everybody, had touched the great heart of this man. He perceived the
peril that lay hidden under the strange and lonely position of his
fellow-voyager--so innocent in the ways of the world, so young and so
easily impressed His fondness for Amelius, it is hardly too much to say,
was the fondness of a father for a son. With a sigh, he shook his head,
and gathered up his letters, and put them back in his pockets. "No, not
yet," he decided. "The poor boy really loves her; and the girl may be
good enough to make the happiness of his life." He got up and walked
about the room. Suddenly he stopped, struck by a new idea. "Why
shouldn't I judge for myself?" he thought. "I've got the address--I
reckon I'll look in on the Farnabys, in a friendly way."

He sat down at the desk, and wrote a line, in the event of Amelius being
the first to return to the lodgings:

DEAR BOY,

"I don't find her photograph tells me quite so much as I want to know.
I have a mind to see the living original. Being your friend, you know,
it's only civil to pay my respects to the family. Expect my unbiased
opinion when I come back.

"Yours,

"RUFUS."

Having enclosed and addressed these lines, he took up his greatcoat--and
checked himself in the act of putting it on. The brown miss was a
British miss. A strange New Englander had better be careful of his
personal appearance, before he ventured into her presence. Urged by this
cautious motive, he approached the looking-glass, and surveyed himself
critically.

"I doubt I might be the better," it occurred to him, "if I brushed my
hair, and smelt a little of perfume. Yes. I'll make a toilet. Where's
the boy's bedroom, I wonder?"

He observed a second door in the sitting-room, and opened it at hazard.
Fortune had befriended him, so far: he found himself in his young
friend's bedchamber.

The toilet of Amelius, simple as it was, had its mysteries for Rufus.
He was at a loss among the perfumes. They were all contained in a
modest little dressing case, without labels of any sort to describe the
contents of the pots and bottles. He examined them one after another,
and stopped at some recently invented French shaving-cream. "It smells
lovely," he said, assuming it to be some