returned it two or three times with emphasis, as if to express his great pleasure at seeing his unknown neighbor and friend again.  He blushed as he did so, for he was conscious of wilful neglect and cruel indifference, in not having called upon him on New Year’s day, or since then, during the period of the closed blinds; and worse still, in not having thought of him a dozen times, though he had taken the trouble to pass his door on his way to or from Mr. Minford’s, and had felt relieved to see no black crape on the bell-pull.

“But then,” thought Marcus, pleading with and for himself, “my mind has been occupied—­very much occupied—–­ with other matters.  Now, if he beckons to me again, I will go over to him without a moment’s delay.  My old friend looks very sick and unhappy.”

Just then the old gentleman reached out his thin white hand, as if the motion required an effort, and beckoned twice.  Marcus answered with two bows, and immediately rose, and laid down his pipe on the window sill, thereby implying that he would come over at once.  The old gentleman smiled faintly, to express his delight.

In a few minutes Marcus Wilkeson stood at the antique mansion, and pulled the bell.  It vibrated feebly as if it shared with the house and its owner the infirmities of age.  The bell was answered by an old, neatly dressed female servant.  She had been told to admit the caller instantly, and said, “Mr. Van Quintem will see you, sir.”

He entered a wide hallway, and followed the noiseless step of the servant, trying to remember, without success, where he had heard the name of Van Quintem.

At the end of the hall the servant opened a door, and ushered him into a room decorated at the edges of the ceiling with heavy wooden carvings, and furnished in the style of the last century.  The old gentleman partly rose from his soft armchair, supported himself by one hand on it, and extended the other to his visitor.

“My name is Myndert Van Quintem, sir,” said he, “and I am very glad to see you.”  There was a pleasant smile in the old gentleman’s pale face, and a warmth in the grasp of his thin right hand, that attested the sincerity of his words.

“And my name is Marcus Wilkeson, sir; and I am truly happy to make your acquaintance,” responded the visitor, in his most genial manner.

The old gentleman here showed symptoms of faintness from the exertion of standing; and Marcus, taking him by the arm, forced him gently into his easy chair, and took a seat beside him.

“I must apologize for not having called before,” said Marcus.  “I—­”

“Not a word, sir,” interrupted the old gentleman.  “It is I who must apologize for the rudeness of nodding and beckoning to a perfect stranger.  But the fact was, I could not regard you as a stranger.  Seeing you at your window, smoking and reading, day after day, while I was smoking and musing at mine, I gradually came to sympathize with you, and to wish that the distance across the lots was short enough to allow us to converse.  I thought, perhaps, that on some subjects we might interest each other.  Now, be good enough to fill that pipe and smoke it, while I tell you in few words who I am.”