7th.—­My sail is in sight; it’s at hand; I have all but boarded the vessel.  I received this morning a letter from the best man in the world.  Here it is: 

Dear Max:  I see this very moment, in an old newspaper which had already passed through my hands without yielding up its most precious item, the announcement of your arrival in New York.  To think of your having perhaps missed the welcome you had a right to expect from me!  Here it is, dear Max—­as cordial as you please.  When I say I have just read of your arrival, I mean that twenty minutes have elapsed by the clock.  These have been spent in conversation with my excellent friend Mr. Sloane—­we having taken the liberty of making you the topic.  I haven’t time to say more about Frederick Sloane than that he is very anxious to make your acquaintance, and that, if your time is not otherwise engaged, he would like you very much to spend a month with him.  He is an excellent host, or I shouldn’t be here myself.  It appears that he knew your mother very intimately, and he has a taste for visiting the amenities of the parents upon the children; the original ground of my own connection with him was that he had been a particular friend of my father.  You may have heard your mother speak of him.  He is a very strange old fellow, but you will like him.  Whether or no you come for his sake, come for mine.

Yours always, Theodore Lisle.

Theodore’s letter is of course very kind, but it’s remarkably obscure.  My mother may have had the highest regard for Mr. Sloane, but she never mentioned his name in my hearing.  Who is he, what is he, and what is the nature of his relations with Theodore?  I shall learn betimes.  I have written to Theodore that I gladly accept (I believe I suppressed the “gladly” though) his friend’s invitation, and that I shall immediately present myself.  What can I do that is better?  Speaking sordidly, I shall obtain food and lodging while I look about me.  I shall have a base of operations.  D., it appears, is a long day’s journey, but enchanting when you reach it.  I am curious to see an enchanting American town.  And to stay a month!  Mr. Frederick Sloane, whoever you are, vous faites bien les choses, and the little that I know of you is very much to your credit.  You enjoyed the friendship of my dear mother, you possess the esteem of the virtuous Theodore, you commend yourself to my own affection.  At this rate, I shall not grudge it.

D—­, 14th.—­I have been here since Thursday evening—­three days.  As we rattled up to the tavern in the village, I perceived from the top of the coach, in the twilight, Theodore beneath the porch, scanning the vehicle, with all his amiable disposition in his eyes.  He has grown older, of course, in these five years, but less so than I had expected.  His is one of those smooth, unwrinkled souls that keep their bodies fair and fresh.  As tall as ever, moreover, and as lean and clean.