It so happened that Mr. Lyon had arrived from New York that very day, with letters to Mr. Markland.  His intention was to remain only until the next morning.  The meeting with Mr. Markland was accidental; and it was only after earnest persuasion that the young man deferred his journey southward, and consented to spend a day or two with the retired merchant, in his country home.  Mr. Lyon was liberally educated, bad travelled a good deal, and been a close observer and thinker.  He was, moreover, well read in human nature.  That he charmed the little circle at Woodbine Lodge on the first evening of his visit. there, is scarcely a matter of wonder.  Nor was he less charmed.  Perhaps the only one not altogether pleased was Aunt Grace.  By habit a close reader of all who came within range of her observation, she occupied quite as much time in scanning the face of Mr. Lyon, and noting each varying expression of eyes, lips, and voice, as in listening to his entertaining description of things heard and seen.

“I don’t just like him.”  Thus she soliloquized after she had retired to her own room.’  “He’s deep—­any one can see that—­deep as the sea.  And he has a way of turning his eyes without turning his head that don’t please me exactly.  Edward is wonderfully taken with him; but he never looks very far below the surface.  And Fanny—­why the girl seemed perfectly fascinated!”

And Aunt Grace shook her head ominously, as she added—­

“He’s handsome enough; but beauty’s only skin-deep, and he may be as black as Lucifer inside.”

A greater part of the next day Mr. Markland and Mr. Lyon spent alone, either in the library or seated in some one of the many shady arbours and cool retreats scattered invitingly over the pleasant estate.  The stranger had found the mind of his host hungering for new aliment, and as his own mind was full stored with thought and purpose, he had but to speak to awaken interest.  Among other things, he gave Mr. Markland, a minute detail of certain plans for acquiring an immense fortune, in the prosecution of which, in company with some wealthy capitalists, he was now engaged.  The result was sure; for every step had been taken with the utmost cautions and every calculation thrice verified.

“And what a dreaming idler I am here!” said Markland, half to himself, in one of the conversational pauses, as there was presented to his mind a vivid contrast of his fruitless inactivity with the vigorous productive industry of others.  “I half question, at times, whether, in leaving the busy world, I did not commit a serious error.”

“Have you given up all interest in business?” asked Mr. Lyon.

“All.”

“Ah!” with slight evidence of surprise.  “How do you live?”

“The life of an oyster, I was going to say,” replied Markland, with a faint smile.

“I would die if not active.  True enjoyment, a wise friend has often said to me, is never found in repose, but in activity.  To me a palace would be a prison, if I could find nothing to do; while a prison would be a palace, if mind and hands were fully employed.”