“Good-evening, Mrs. Chilton.”

Mr. Lockhart made room for her on the sofa; and, quietly ensconced in one corner, she sat for some time so engaged in listening to the general conversation that the bitter recollection of by-gone trials was entirely banished.  Dr. Hartwell and his friend were talking of Europe, and the latter, after recounting much of interest in connection with his former visits, said earnestly: 

“Go with me this time, Guy; one tour cannot have satiated you.  It will be double, nay, triple, enjoyment to have you along.  It is, and always has been, a mystery to me why you should persist in practicing.  You do not need the pecuniary aid; your income would enable you to live just as you pleased.  Life is short at best.  Why not glean all of pleasure that travel affords to a nature like yours?  Your sister was just telling me that in a few days she goes North to place Pauline at some celebrated school, and, without her, you will be desolate.  Come, let’s to Europe together.  What do you say?”

Dr. Hartwell received this intimation of his sister’s plans without the slightest token of surprise, and smiled sarcastically as he replied: 

“Percy, I shall answer you in the words of a favorite author of the day.  He says, ’It is for want of self-culture that the superstition of traveling, whose idols are Italy, England, Egypt, retains its fascination for all educated Americans.  He who travels to be amused, or to get somewhat which he does not carry, travels away from himself, and grows old, even in youth, among—­old things.  In Thebes, in Palmyra, his will and mind have become old and dilapidated as they.  He carries ruins to ruins.  Traveling is a fool’s paradise.  At home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty and lose my sadness.  I pack my trunk, embark, and finally wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from.  I affect to be intoxicated with sights and suggestions, but I am not.  My giant goes with me wherever I go.’  Percy, I endeavored to drown my giant in the Mediterranean; to bury it forever beneath the green waters of Lago Maggiore; to hurl it from solemn, icy, Alpine heights; to dodge it in museums of art; but, as Emerson says, it clung to me with unerring allegiance, and I came home.  And now, daily and yearly, I repeat the hopeless experiment, in my round of professional duties.  Yes, May and Pauline are going away, but I shall have Beulah to look after, and I fancy time will not drag its wheels through coming years.  How soon do you think of leaving America?  I have some commissions for you when you start.”

“I hope I shall be able to go North within a fortnight, and, after a short visit to Newport or Saratoga, sail for Havre.  What do you want from the great storehouse of art, sculpture, and paintings, cameos and prints?”

“I will furnish you with a catalogue.  Do you go through Germany, or only flaunt, butterfly-like, under the sunny skies of the Levant?”