“If I think so, I’ll go.”

“I’ll make you think so,” said Rufus putting on his hat, —­ “or else I won’t go engineering!  I’ll be back in an hour.”

CHAPTER VIII.

Yea, men may wonder, while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man,
In such a rest his heart to keep;
But angels say, —­ and through the word
I ween their blessed smile is heard, —­
“He giveth his beloved sleep!”
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Notwithstanding however Rufus’s assurance, he did go off to his engineering and he did not succeed in changing his brother’s mind.  Winthrop abode in his place, to meet whatever the summer had in store for him.

It brought the city’s old plague, though not with such fearful presence as in years past.  Still the name and the dread of it were abroad, and enough of its power to justify them.  Many that could, ran away from the city; and business, if it was not absolutely checked, moved sluggishly.  There was much less than usual done.

There was little in Winthrop’s line, certainly.  Yet in the days of vacant courts and laid-by court business, the tenant of Mr. Inchbald’s attic went out and came in as often as formerly.  What he did with his time was best known to himself.

“I wonder how he does, now, all alone,” said Mrs. Nettley to her brother.

“I’ve a notion he isn’t so much of the time alone,” said Mr. Inchbald.  “He’s not at home any more than he used to be, nor so much.  I hear him going up or down the stairs —­ night and day.”

“Surely there are no courts now?” said Mrs. Nettley.

“Never are in August —­ and especially not now, of course.”

“I’m afraid he’s lonesome, poor fellow!”

“Never saw a fellow look less like it,” said Mr. Inchbald.  “He’s a strong man, he is, in his heart and mind.  I should expect to see one of the pyramids of Egypt come down as soon as either of ’em.  Lonesome?  I never saw him look lonesome.”

“He has a trick of not shewing what he feels then,” said his sister.  “I’ve seen him times when I know he felt lonesome, —­ though as you say, I can’t say he shewed it.  He’s a strong build of a man, too, George.”

“Like body, like mind,” said her brother.  “Yes.  I like to see a man all of a piece.  But his brother has a finer figure.”

“Do you think so?” said Mrs. Nettley.  “That’s for a painter.  Now I like Winthrop’s the best.”

“That’s for a woman,” said Mr. Inchbald laughing.  “You always like what you love.”

“Well, what do you suppose he finds to keep him out so much of the time?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Inchbald, —­ “and I daren’t ask him.  I doubt some poor friends of his know.”

“Why do you?”

“I can’t tell you why; —­ something —­ the least trifle, once or twice, has given me the idea.”

“He’s a Christian to look at!” said Mrs. Nettley, busying herself round her stove and speaking in rather an undertone.  “He’s worse than a sermon to me, many times.”