Mr. Kilbright became more and more useful to me, particularly after he had disciplined his mind to the new style of spelling.  And when he had been with me about a month I insisted that he should take a holiday and visit Bixbury, for I knew that to do this was the great desire of his heart.  He could easily reach his native place by rail, but believing that he would rather not go at all than travel on a train, I procured a saddle-horse for him, and when I had given him full directions as to the roads, he set out.

In four days he returned.  “How did you find Bixbury?” I asked of him.

“There is no longer such a place,” he answered, sadly.  “I found a town of that name, but it is not the Bixbury in which I was born.  That has utterly disappeared.”

And, after this, he never again alluded to his native place.

The high character and many admirable qualities of this man daily increased the affectionate regard and esteem in which he was held by my wife and myself; and feeling that we could do nothing better for him than to endeavor to make him forget the things of the past, and take a lively and earnest interest in those of the present, we set ourselves to work upon this task.  In a great degree our efforts were successful, and we soon perceived that Mr. Kilbright cared more and more for what he saw about him.  It was, indeed, natural that he should do this, for he was still a young man, and able to adapt himself to changes in his surroundings.

As I have said, he gradually did so adapt himself, and in the course of the autumn this adaptation took a form which at first amused Mrs. Colesworthy and myself, and afterward enlisted our hearty sympathy.  He became attached to Miss Budworth, the librarian of our town library.  He frequently went there for books, and as she was a very intelligent young woman, and very willing to aid him in his selections, it was not strange that he should become interested in her.  Very often he would remain at the library until it closed in the evening, when he would walk to her home with her, discoursing upon literary and historical subjects.

My wife and I discussed this situation very thoroughly.  Lilian Budworth was a good girl, a sensible one, and a very good-looking one.  Her family was highly respectable and her years well proportioned to those of Mr. Kilbright.  There seemed to be, therefore, no reason why this intimacy should not be encouraged.  But yet we talked over the matter night after night.

“You see,” said my wife, “it all seems plain and simple enough; but, on the other hand, it isn’t.  In the first place, she does not know that he has had a wife, or what old Mr. Scott is to him.  He has promised us that he will never say anything to anybody about having lived in the last century without first consulting us; and old Mr. Scott has said over and over again that he doesn’t intend to speak of it; and the spiritualists have left town long ago; so, of course, she knows nothing about it.  But, if things go on, she must be told, and what will happen then, I would like to know!”