“Well, Sir, it do come natural like, somehow,” said the man, becoming suddenly stolid, on perceiving that his remark was by no means relished.  “I suppose it’s seeing you so much about together; but I meant no offense.”

“I am sure of that,” said Richard.  It was on the tip of his tongue to pursue the subject, but he restrained himself.  If he had already given occasion for gossip, he did not wish to provide fresh fuel for it in his absence from Gethin.

When a mile or two away from Turlock he produced the check which was the apparent cause of his irksome journey, and tearing it into minute fragments, scattered them out of the window.

Upon the second day he arrived at Plymouth, but too late for banking-hours, and drove to an hotel.  He had had little to eat upon his journey, yet he now sent his dinner away almost untasted; on the other hand, though it was unusual with him to take much wine, he drank a bottle of Champagne and some sherry, then lit a cigar, and strolled out of doors.  It was a beautiful evening; and he sauntered on the Hoe, gazing upon that glorious prospect of sea and shore which it affords, without paying regard to any thing, although all was as new as fair.  His mind, however, took in every object mechanically, and often presented them to him again in after-years, just as it did that summer scene upon the ruined tower.  Was it laying in provision for itself against the time, now drawing so nigh, when his physical eyes should have no more of such fair sights to feed upon?  Or was the circumstance only such as attends all great changes and crises of our lives; for is not every feature of the face of Nature, upon the eve of any vital event, thus engraven on our recollection?  Do we not note the daisies on the lawn forever, when for one instant we look out upon it from the darkened room wherein our loved one lies a-dying?

It presently grew too late for the ordinary signs and tokens of life; but Richard still paced to and fro, and gazed upon the darkening waters; he saw the light leap out upon them from the distant Eddystone, and from the craft in harbor, and from the houses that were built upon its margin:  blue and red, and white and yellow.

There was one large vessel a great way off that he had not hitherto observed, but which now became conspicuous by its green light.  Richard, vaguely interested in this exceptional beacon, inquired of a miserable-looking man, who had in vain been offering his services as cicerone, what it signified.

“Well, Sir, them colors as the ships show all mean something different; the red is from the floating powder-magazine, and the yellow is—­”

“I said the green light,” broke in Richard, with his usual impatience of prolixity.  “What is that vessel there, I say?”

“Oh, that’s the convict ship, Sir; they say she is waiting until after the ’sizes, to take the drab-jackets to Portland.”

Richard nodded, and threw the man a shilling; then walked hastily away into the town.  The night was mild, but his teeth chattered, and he shook in every limb.