Yet he corrected himself.  Not ‘foundationless,’ while his strong will stood unmoved and untouched by circumstance.  Let that not be conquered, it would surely be conqueror, in the long run; and he determined it should have as long a run as was necessary.  He could not help the coming to his mind, as he slowly walked up Beaver St., of his mother’s recipe against disappointment, and the conversation had about it years before; and the words, “Whatsoever he doeth shall prosper,” as Rufus’s voice had given them, came back fresh and with a moment’s singular doubt and yearning touching their faithfulness.  Himself, in that flash of light, he saw to be weak, and not strong.  What if it should be so indeed? “Whatsoever he doeth —­ SHALL PROSPER.”  Upon the uncertainty of human things, upon the tumult of human difficulties and resolves, the words came like a strange breath of peace, from somewhere unknown, but felt to be a region of health and strength.  Yet the qualifications to take the promise were not in Winthrop’s hand; to seek them seemed to be a one side of his purpose; he left them on one side, and went on.

He was bending his steps towards the meeting of Beaver and Little South Sts., the sole point of light which he knew in the city.  It seemed to him that rather less of the sun’s cheer got into Diamond St. than anywhere else.  Bank St. was a heartsome place in comparison.  He made his way slowly up Beaver St. looking for Little South, and passing what to him were a great many streets without finding that one.  As he drew near still another, his eye was taken with a man standing on the sidewalk before the corner house; a tall, personable, clean-looking man; who on his part looked first steadily at Winthrop and then came down to meet him, laughing and holding out his hand before he got near.

“How do you do?” was his first cordial salutation. —­ “It’s Mr. Landholm! —­ I knew it! —­ I knew you, from your likeness to your brother.  We’ve been looking for you.  Come in, come in!  How is your brother, Mr. Landholm?”

Winthrop was taken by surprise and could hardly say.

“I knew you as far off as I could see you —­ I said to myself, ‘That’s Mr. Landholm!’ I am very glad to see you, sir.  You’ve just got here?”

“This morning.  But what right have I to be expected?”

“O we knew you were coming.  Your room’s ready for you —­ empty and waiting, and we’ve been waiting and lonesome too, ever since Mr. William went away.  How is Mr. William, Mr. Landholm?”

“Well, sir, and full of kindly remembrances of you.”

“Ah, he’s not forgotten here,” said Mr. Inchbald.  “He won’t be forgotten anywhere.  Here’s my sister, Mr. Landholm, —­ my sister, Mrs. Nettley. —­ Now, my dear sir, before we sit down, tell me, —­ you haven’t any other place to stay?”

“I have not, Mr. Inchbald, indeed.”

“Then come up and see what we have to give you, before we strike a bargain.  Doll —­ won’t you give us a cup of tea by the time we come down?  Mr. Landholm will be the better of the refreshment.  You have had a tiresome journey this weather, Mr. Landholm?”