“Yes, the same.  Craniologists admit, I believe, that his was the thickest skull ever examined; and it is related that when he could no longer articulate English, he spoke Greek with fluency.”

In a few moments the camp was broken up, and they proceeded on their way.  Mary cast a longing glance toward her horse, now mounted by one of the servants, and was taking her seat in the wagon, when Dr. Bryant said: 

“Would you like to try your horse a little while this morning?  If it proves too fatiguing, you can return to the wagon.”

“I should like it very much, if I felt strong enough, but I could not sit upright so long.  Doctor, will you be so kind as to ride my horse for me to-day, and let William drive?”

“Certainly, if you prefer it; but may I venture to ask your reason?”

“You have long been separated from your friend, and naturally wish to be with him.  Do not, on my account, remain behind the party, as you are forced to do in driving the wagon, but join Florence and Mr. Stewart, who seem in such fine spirits this beautiful morning.  I feel too weary and feeble to talk, and William will take good care of me.”

He fixed his dark eyes mournfully on her face; she could not meet his gaze, and her head sunk upon her bosom.

“Believe me, Miss Irving, every other pleasure is second to that of watching over and being with you.  If, in the proposed change, my feelings alone are to be consulted, allow me to remain with you.”

“Thank you, Dr. Bryant, you are very kind to remember me so constantly; my only object was to promote your enjoyment of the day.”

They rode for some distance in silence.

“This is my birthday; and how little I fancied, on the last anniversary, that I should be so situated,” said Dr. Bryant, as though speaking unconsciously.

“How one’s feelings change with maturer years.  I remember well that, in my childhood, the lapse of time seemed provokingly slow, and I wondered why, from year to year, it seemed so very long.  The last three years of my life, though somewhat checkered, have flown too quickly away.  A month ago, I would willingly have recalled them, but they are lost in the ocean of eternity, only to be remembered now as a changing, feverish dream,” Mary replied.

“Miss Irving, without the benign and elevating influence of Hope, that great actuating principle from the opening to the close of life, what a dreary blank our existence would prove.  In childhood it gorgeously gilds the future; the tints fade as maturity gains that future, and then it gently brightens the evening of life, while memory flings her mantle of witchery over the past, recalling, in hours of sadness, all of joy to cheer the heart, and banishing forever the phantoms of terror—­the seasons of gloom that once haunted us.”