e found himself in
the Tyrol, he was delighted once more to have a companion. He had
of course picked up Englishmen, and been picked up by them at every
town he had passed; one always does; some ladies also he had casually
encountered--but he had met with no second Caroline. While wandering
about the mountains of Transylvania, he had been quite contented to
be alone: at Pesth he had not ceased to congratulate himself on his
solitude, though sometimes he found the day a little too long for
his purpose in doing so; at Vienna he was glad enough to find an old
Oxonian; though, even while enjoying the treat, he would occasionally
say to himself that, after all, society was only a bore. But by the
time he had done the Saltzburg country, he was heartily sick of
himself, somewhat sick also of thinking of his love, and fully able
to re-echo all that Harcourt had to say in praise of some very fine
old wine which that fastidious gentleman caused to be produced for
them from the cellars of the "Golden Sun."

Innspruck is a beautiful little town. Perhaps no town in Europe can
boast a site more exquisitely picturesque. Edinburgh would be equal
to it, if it had a river instead of a railroad running through its
valley and under its Castle-hill. But we sojourned too long in the
Holy Land to permit of our dwelling even for half a chapter in
the Tyrol. George, however, and his friend remained there for a
fortnight. They went over the Brenner and looked down into Italy;
made an excursion to those singular golden-tinted mountains, the
Dolomites, among which live a race of men who speak neither German
nor Italian, nor other language known among the hundred dialects
of Europe, but a patois left to them from the ancient Latins; they
wandered through the valleys of the Inn and its tributaries and
wondered at the odd way of living which still prevails in their
picturesque castellated mansions.

For awhile Bertram thought that Harcourt was the best companion in
the world. He was as agreeable and easy tempered as his father; and
was at the same time an educated man, which his father certainly was
not. Harcourt, though he put his happiness in material things perhaps
quite as much as did Sir Lionel, required that his material things
should be of a high flavour. He was a reading man, addicted, in a
certain cynical, carping sort of way, even to poetry, was a critic
almost by profession, loved pictures, professed to love scenery,
certainly loved to