He was a rather delicate-looking boy, with large gray eyes and soft brown hair, and was evidently not much in the habit of traveling.  Perhaps this was the first time he had ever left home, thought Bressant, in the idleness of his inactive mind.  His mother was a widow; her dark dress and black hood, and pale, over-worked face looked like it.  Besides, if the boy had had a father, of course he would have been down to see him off.  Probably there were sisters, too; the boy looked somehow as if he had been brought up with sisters; but they would not have followed him down to the station; they kissed him good-by at the house-door, leaving it to his mother to see the very last of him.  For be had resolved to go forth into the world and make his fortune, not to encumber his poor mother with his support any longer.  He was going, probably, to New York, to be a clerk or an errand-boy in some dry-goods store, or banking-house, or insurance-office.  Once a week—­oftener, perhaps—­he would write home to his mother, sending his love to her and to the girls, telling them how much he wanted to see them all again, but that he was doing pretty well, and was working, and going to work, very hard.  He would be rich some day, and they should all come to New York then and live in his house on Fifth Avenue!

Bressant, comfortably extended on his two seats, with his long future of bodily case and indulgence opening before him—­his freedom from all ties to bind him to any spot, or necessities to compel him to any labor—­Bressant found that the thought of this innocent boy, going forth into the world, with his green carpet-bag, his loving heart, his assurance of being loved, his ambition to establish his mother and sisters on Fifth Avenue, was becoming quite annoying to his mental serenity.  He would think of him no more, therefore, and, to aid himself in this resolve, he closed his eyes, so as to avoid seeing him.  Being really somewhat weary after his manifold exertions and continued sleeplessness, his eyes closed very naturally.

But the boy was not to be so easily got rid of.  He almost immediately turned round in his seat, and directed a steadfast gaze out of his gray eyes at Bressant’s reclining figure.  Presently, he pronounced, in a low voice, yet which was distinctly audible to the deaf man’s ears, two words, the effect of which was to make the other start up in his seat, and stare about him in amazement and alarm.

The boy met his glance with great calmness and gentleness, and held out his hand as if to grasp Bressant’s.

“Was it you?” exclaimed the latter, bewildered.  “How did you know that name, and who are you?” As he spoke, he mechanically took the extended hand in his own.

“Why, don’t you know me?” answered the boy, smiling, and, at the same time, drawing him, by a slight but decided traction, to sit down by him.  “Me—­your best friend?”

Something in the voice, something in the manner, and in the expression of the eyes, but, most of all, the smile, seemed strangely familiar to Bressant.  The touch of the hand, too, he thought be recognized—­it soothed and yet controlled him.  Still, he was unable to recall exactly who the boy was, or where he had seen him before.