“Not this morning, I think, unless it is to be found very near by,” said Winthrop; “for my feet would hardly carry me a hundred yards.”

“You see, he’s weak yet,” put in Mr. Forriner.

“Didn’t you walk here, cousin?” said the lady.

“Unfortunately, I did, ma’am; for I have not strength to walk anywhere else.”

“O well, you can go up stairs and lie down and get some rest; you’ll be better by afternoon I dare say.  Will you have another cup of tea?”

But Winthrop declined it.

“He don’t look right smart,” said Mr. Forriner.  “I reckon he’ll have to go to bed for a while.  Cousin, if you’ll come up stairs, I’ll shew you a place where you can sleep.”

They went up accordingly.

“Mr. Forriner —­” called his wife from the bottom of the stairs when he and Winthrop had reached the top —­ “Mr. Forriner! —­ the end room —­ put him in the end room.”

“Yes —­ it isn’t very big, but you won’t mind that to take a nap in,” said Mr. Forriner, opening the door and ushering Winthrop in.

Where he left him; and what secrets Winthrop’s pillow knew were known to none but his pillow.  But the morning was not all lost in sleep; and home’s fair images did come most sweet about him before sleep came at all.

He was called to dinner, but chose sleep rather, and slept well all the afternoon.  Towards evening he roused himself, and though feeling very little strength to boast of, he dressed himself and went out.

The day had changed.  A warmer temperature had thawed off the thin sleet, and the pavements were drying.  The rain-cloud of the morning was broken up and scattering hither and thither, and through the clefts of it the sun came blinking in upon the world.  The light was pleasant upon the wet streets and the long stacks of building and the rolling clouds; and the change in the air was most soothing and mild after the morning’s harsh breath.  Winthrop tasted and felt it as he walked up the street; but how can the outer world be enjoyed by a man to whom the world is all outer?  It only quickened his sense of the necessity there was he should find another climate for his mind to live in.  But his body was in no state to carry him about to make discoveries.  He must care for that in the first place.  After some inquiries and wandering about, he at last made his way into Bank St. and found an eating-house, very near the scene of his morning’s disaster.  Winthrop had very few shillings to be extravagant with; he laid down two of them in exchange for a small mutton chop and some bread; and then, somewhat heartened, set out upon his travels again, crossing over to the west side of the city.  He felt glad, as he went, that his mother —­ and his little sister —­ did not know at that moment how utterly alone and foundationless he and his undertaking were standing in the place he had chosen for the scene of his labours and the home of his future life.