oo well satisfied on the whole to be
annoyed by a passing coldness.

CHAPTER XLIV. THE LECTURER

Alfred Layton's day dragged drearily along, watching and waiting for the
hour of departure. Close prisoner as he was, the time hung heavily on
his hands, without a book or any sort of companionship to beguile its
weariness. He tried various ways to pass the hours; he pondered over
a faintly colored and scarce traceable map on the walls. It represented
America, with all the great western annexations, in that condition of
vague obscurity in which geographers were wont to depict the Arctic
regions. He essayed to journalize his experiences on the road; but he
lost patience in recording the little incidents which composed them. He
endeavored to take counsel with himself about his future; but he lost
heart in the inquiry, as he bethought him how little direction he had
ever given hitherto to his life, and how completely he had been the
sport of accident.

He was vexed and angry with himself. It was the first time he had been
called upon to act by his own guidance for months back, and he had made
innumerable mistakes in the attempt. Had Quackinboss been with him, he
well knew all these blunders had been avoided. This reflection pained
him, just as it has pained many a gifted and accomplished man to think
that life and the world are often more difficult than book-learning.

He was too much out of temper with the town to interest himself in what
went on beneath his windows, and only longed for night, that he might
leave it never to return. At last the day began to wane, the shadows
fell longer across the empty street, some cawing rooks swept over the
tree-tops to their homes in the tall pines, and an occasional wagon
rolled heavily by, with field implements in it,--sign all that the hoars
of labor had drawn to a close. "I shall soon be off," muttered he;
"soon hastening away from a spot whose memory will be a nightmare to
me." In the gray half-light he sat, thinking the thought which has found
its way into so many hearts. What meaning have these little episodes
of loneliness? What are the lessons they are meant to teach? Are they
intended to attach us more closely to those we love, by showing how
wearily life drags on in absence from them; or are they meant as
seasons of repose, in which we may gain strength for fresh efforts?

Mr. Heron broke in upon these musings. He came to say that crowds were
hurrying to the lecture-r