expected; in his own city, the relation is reversed, and he stands

amazed to be so little recollected. Elsewhere he is refreshed to

see attractive faces, to remark possible friends; there he scouts

the long streets, with a pang at heart, for the faces and friends

that are no more. Elsewhere he is delighted with the presence of

what is new, there tormented by the absence of what is old.

Elsewhere he is content to be his present self; there he is smitten

with an equal regret for what he once was and for what he once

hoped to be.

He was feeling all this dimly, as he drove from the station, on his

last visit; he was feeling it still as he alighted at the door of

his friend Mr. Johnstone Thomson, W.S., with whom he was to stay.

A hearty welcome, a face not altogether changed, a few words that

sounded of old days, a laugh provoked and shared, a glimpse in

passing of the snowy cloth and bright decanters and the Piranesis

on the dining-room wall, brought him to his bed-room with a

somewhat lightened cheer, and when he and Mr. Thomson sat down a

few minutes later, cheek by jowl, and pledged the past in a

preliminary bumper, he was already almost consoled, he had already

almost forgiven himself his two unpardonable errors, that he should

ever have left his native city, or ever returned to it.

"I have something quite in your way," said Mr. Thomson. "I wished

to do honour to your arrival; because, my dear fellow, it is my own

youth that comes back along with you; in a very tattered and

withered state, to be sure, but - well! - all that's left of it."

"A great deal better than nothing," said the editor. "But what is

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