“No,” said Holden; “it befitteth not.  Stay, to take care of Faith.  Stay, to welcome me when I shall return with a crown of rejoicing upon my head.”

Armstrong shrunk within himself at the repulse.  He would not have regarded or hardly noticed it once, but, his mind had become morbidly sensitive.  A word, a look, a tone had now power to inflict a wound.  He was like the Sybarite whose repose was disturbed by a wrinkled rose-leaf; with this difference, that they were spiritual, not material hurts he felt.  Did the forecast of Holden penetrate the future?  Did he, as in a vision, behold the spectres of misfortune that dogged Armstrong’s steps?  Was he afraid of a companionship that might drag him down and entangle him in the meshes of a predestined wretchedness?  He is right, thought Armstrong.  He sees the whirlpool into which, if once drawn, there is no escape from destruction.

Holden succeeded better in communicating a portion of his confidence to Pownal.  In the morning of life, before experience has dimmed our sky with clouds, we readily perceive the sun of joy.  The bright eyes of youth catch his rays on the mountain tops, before the drooping lids of age are raised from the ground.  The ardent temperament of the young man entered with delight into the hopes of his elder.  He even anticipated the request Holden intended to make, and asked permission to accompany him.  With a very natural feeling he endeavored to effect some change in the costume of the Recluse, but here he met with decided opposition.

“I have nothing to do with the world or its follies,” said Holden.  “Let it pass on its way as I will on mine.  It will reck but little of the garments of an unknown man.”

It was more for the sake of his friend than himself that Pownal proposed the change.  Perceiving the feelings of the other, he forbore to press a proposal further, which, after all, was of but little consequence.  A sloop was to sail the next day—­the wind favoring—­from Hillsdale, and it was agreed between the two to take passage together.

We may judge of the feelings of Pownal at this time, from the fact that the last evening he spent at Hillsdale, before he left for New York, where, indeed, he expected to remain but a short time, found him at the house of Judge Bernard.  He was fortunate, whether beyond his expectations or not we cannot say, in finding Miss Bernard alone.  At least it was a fortunate coincidence with his wishes, and might we judge, from the raised color of the cheeks, and the smiles that played round the lips of the beautiful girl, not displeasing to her.  It is wonderful, when we look back, how frequently these charming accidents of youth occur.

It was unnecessary that Pownal should speak of his intended trip to the commercial capital.  He seemed to assume that Anne was already acquainted with his purpose, but of Holden’s discovery she had not been informed.

“Beautiful!” cried Anne, clapping her hands.  “We shall have a denouement fit for a novel yet.  Oh, I do hope he may find his son.  And,” added she, with a warm quick feeling, “I can see now reason for the strange habits of our poor dear prophet.  Oh, to think of the long years of lonesome misery he must have passed!”