at
he was to his friend.

Meanwhile, imagine the turmoil at home, in respect of Everett's absence,
and the errand which detained him. No disguise was sought. The son wrote
to his mother frankly, stating where he was, and under what
circumstances. He received a missive from his father of furious
remonstrance; he replied by one so firm, yet so loving withal, that old
Mr. Gray could not choose but change his tone to one of angry
compassion. "The boy believes he's doing right. Heaven send him a little
sense!" was all he could say.

But there came a yet more overwhelming evidence of Everett's utter
destitution of that commodity. A mercantile appointment was offered to
Charles Barclay in one of the colonies, and Everett advanced the large
sum necessary to enable his friend to accept it. To do this, he
sacrificed the whole of what he possessed independently of his father,
namely, a legacy left to him by his uncle, over which he had full
control. It must be years before he could be repaid, of course,--it
might be never! But, rash as was the act, he could not be hindered from
doing it. His father raged and stormed, and again subsided into gloomy
resignation. Henceforth he would wonder at nothing, for his son was mad,
unfit to take part in the world. "A mere visionary, and no man," the
hapless parent said, whenever he alluded to him.

When Everett returned, Charles Barclay was on his way to Canada,
vigorously intent on the new life before him. Agnes drew strength and
comfort from the steadfast look of her brother's eyes, as he whispered
to her, "Don't fear. Trust God, and be patient." The blight fell away
from her, after that. If she was never a light-hearted girl again, she
became something even sweeter and nobler. They never talked together
about him, for the father had forbidden it; and, indeed, they needed
not. Openly, and before them all, Everett would say when he heard from
his friend. And so the months passed on.

Then came the era in our Visionary's life,--an era, indeed, to such as
he!--the first love. First love,--and last,--to him it was nothing less
than fateful. It was his nature to be steadfast and thorough. He could
no more have _transferred_ the love that rose straightly and purely from
the very innermost fire of his soul than he could have changed the soul
itself. Not many natures are thus created with the inevitable necessity
to be constant. Few among women, fewer yet among men, love as Everett
Gray loved R