was staying, it appeared, at the house in Murrayfield; and

though the butler would have been glad enough to have taken
his place and given all the news of the family, John, struck

with a little chill, was eager to be gone. Only, the door
was scarce closed again, before he regretted that he had not

asked about 'that man.'
He was to pay no more visits till he had seen his father and

made all well at home; Alan had been the only possible
exception, and John had not time to go as far as Murrayfield.

But here he was on Regent Terrace; there was nothing to
prevent him going round the end of the hill, and looking from

without on the Mackenzies' house. As he went, he reflected
that Flora must now be a woman of near his own age, and it

was within the bounds of possibility that she was married;
but this dishonourable doubt he dammed down.

There was the house, sure enough; but the door was of another
colour, and what was this - two door-plates? He drew nearer;

the top one bore, with dignifiedsimplicity, the words, 'Mr.
Proudfoot'; the lower one was more explicit, and informed the

passer-by that here was likewise the abode of 'Mr. J. A.
Dunlop Proudfoot, Advocate.' The Proudfoots must be rich,

for no advocate could look to have much business in so remote
a quarter; and John hated them for their wealth and for their

name, and for the sake of the house they desecrated with
their presence. He remembered a Proudfoot he had seen at

school, not known: a little, whey-faced urchin, the
despicable member of some lower class. Could it be this

abortion that had climbed to be an advocate, and now lived in
the birthplace of Flora and the home of John's tenderest

memories? The chill that had first seized upon him when he
heard of Houston's absence deepened and struck inward. For a

moment, as he stood under the doors of that estranged house,
and looked east and west along the solitarypavement of the

Royal Terrace, where not a cat was stirring, the sense of
solitude and desolation took him by the throat, and he wished

himself in San Francisco.
And then the figure he made, with his decent portliness, his

whiskers, the money in his purse, the excellent cigar that he
now lighted, recurred to his mind in consolatory comparison

with that of a certain maddened lad who, on a certain spring
Sunday ten years before, and in the hour of church-time

silence, had stolen from that city by the Glasgow road. In
the face of these changes, it were impious to doubt fortune's

kindness. All would be well yet; the Mackenzies would be
found, Flora, younger and lovelier and kinder than before;

Alan would be found, and would have so nicely discriminated
his behaviour as to have grown, on the one hand, into a

valued friend of Mr. Nicholson's, and to have remained, upon
the other, of that exact shade of joviality which John

desired in his companions. And so, once more, John fell to
work discounting the delightful future: his first appearance

in the family pew; his first visit to his uncle Greig, who
thought himself so great a financier, and on whose purblind

Edinburgh eyes John was to let in the dazzling daylight of
the West; and the details in general of that unrivalled

transformation scene, in which he was to display to all
Edinburgh a portly and successful gentleman in the shoes of

the derided fugitive.
The time began to draw near when his father would have

returned from the office, and it would be the prodigal's cue
to enter. He strolled westward by Albany Street, facing the

sunset embers, pleased, he knew not why, to move in that cold
air and indigotwilight, starred with street-lamps. But

there was one more disenchantment waiting him by the way.
At the corner of Pitt Street he paused to light a fresh

cigar; the vesta threw, as he did so, a strong light upon his
features, and a man of about his own age stopped at sight of

it.
'I think your name must be Nicholson,' said the stranger.

It was too late to avoid recognition; and besides, as John
was now actually on the way home, it hardly mattered, and he

gave way to the impulse of his nature.
'Great Scott!' he cried, 'Beatson!' and shook hands with

warmth. It scarce seemed he was repaid in kind.
'So you're home again?' said Beatson. 'Where have you been

all this long time?'
'In the States,' said John - 'California. I've made my pile

though; and it suddenly struck me it would be a noble scheme
to come home for Christmas.'

'I see,' said Beatson. 'Well, I hope we'll see something of
you now you're here.'

'Oh, I guess so,' said John, a little frozen.
'Well, ta-ta,' concluded Beatson, and he shook hands again

and went.
This was a cruel first experience. It was idle to blink

facts: here was John home again, and Beatson - Old Beatson -
did not care a rush. He recalled Old Beatson in the past -

that merry and affectionate" target="_blank" title="a.亲爱的">affectionate lad - and their joint adventures
and mishaps, the window they had broken with a catapult in

India Place, the escalade of the castle rock, and many
another inestimable bond of friendship; and his hurt surprise

grew deeper. Well, after all, it was only on a man's own
family that he could count; blood was thicker than water, he

remembered; and the net result of this encounter was to bring
him to the doorstep of his father's house, with tenderer and

softer feelings.
The night had come; the fanlight over the door shone bright;

the two windows of the dining-room where the cloth was being
laid, and the three windows of the drawing-room where Maria

would be waiting dinner, glowed softlier through yellow
blinds. It was like a vision of the past. All this time of

his absence life had gone forward with an equal foot, and the
fires and the gas had been lighted, and the meals spread, at

the accustomed hours. At the accustomed hour, too, the bell
had sounded thrice to call the family to worship. And at the

thought, a pang of regret for his demerit seized him; he
remembered the things that were good and that he had

neglected, and the things that were evil and that he had
loved; and it was with a prayer upon his lips that he mounted

the steps and thrust the key into the key-hole.
He stepped into the lighted hall, shut the door softly behind

him, and stood there fixed in wonder. No surprise of
strangeness could equal the surprise of that complete

familiarity. There was the bust of Chalmers near the stair-
railings, there was the clothes-brush in the accustomed

place; and there, on the hat-stand, hung hats and coats that
must surely be the same as he remembered. Ten years dropped

from his life, as a pin may slip between the fingers; and the
ocean and the mountains, and the mines, and crowded marts and

mingled races of San Francisco, and his own fortune and his
own disgrace, became, for that one moment, the figures of a

dream that was over.
He took off his hat, and moved mechanically toward the stand;

and there he found a small change that was a great one to
him. The pin that had been his from boyhood, where he had

flung his balmoral when he loitered home from the Academy,
and his first hat when he came briskly back from college or

the office - his pin was occupied. 'They might have at least