The brothers walked home in silence, till they had near reached their own door.

“How easily you make a straight way for yourself anywhere!” Rufus said suddenly and with half a breath of a sigh.

“What do you mean?” said Winthrop starting.

“You always did.”

“What?”

“What you pleased.”

“Well?” said Winthrop smiling.

“You may do it now.  And will to the end of your life.”

“Which seems to afford you somehow a gloomy prospect of contemplation,” said his brother.

“Well —­ it does —­ and it should.”

“I should like to hear you state your premises and draw your conclusion.”

Rufus was silent and very sober for a little while.  At last he said,

“Your success and mine have always been very different, in everything we undertook.”

“Not in everything,” said Winthrop.

“Well —­ in almost everything.”

“You say I do whatever I please.  The difficulty with you sometimes, Will, is that you do not ‘please’ hard enough.”

“It would be difficult for anybody to rival you in that,” Rufus said with a mingling of expression, half ironical and half bitter.  “You please so ‘hard’ that nobody else has a chance.”

To which Winthrop made no answer.

“I am not sorry for it, Governor,” Rufus said just as they reached their door, and with a very changed and quiet tone.

To which also Winthrop made no answer except by a look.

CHAPTER XXIV.

I watch thee from the quiet shore;
Thy spirit up to mine can reach;
But in dear words of human speech
We two communicate no more. 
TENNYSON.

Mrs. Nettley was putting the finishing touches to her breakfast —­ that is, to her breakfast in prospect.  A dish of fish and the coffee-pot stood keeping each other cheerful on one side the hearth; and Mrs. Nettley was just, with some trouble, hanging a large round griddle over the blazing fire.  Her brother stood by, with his hands on his sides, and a rather complacent face.

“What’s that flap-jack going on for?”

“For something I like, if you don’t,” said his sister.  “George —­”

Mrs Nettley stopped while her iron ladle was carefully bestowing large spoonfuls of batter all round the griddle.

“What?” said Mr. Inchbald, when it was done.

“Somebody up-stairs likes ’em.  Don’t you suppose you could get Mr. Landholm to come down.  He likes ’em, and he don’t get ’em now-a-days —­ nor too much of anything that’s good.  I don’t know what he does live on, up there.”

“Anything is better than those things,” said her brother.

“Other people are more wise than you.  Do go up and ask him, will you, George?  I hope he gets good dinners somewhere, for it’s very little of anything he cooks at that smoky little fireplace of his.  Do you ever see him bring anything in?”