“Yes; for the road to heaven lies through the very centre of the world, and those who seek bypaths will find their termination at an immense distance from the point they had hoped to gain.  It is by neighbourly love that we attain to a higher and diviner love.  Can this love be born in us, if, instead of living in and for the world’s good, we separate ourselves from our kind, and pass the years in fruitless meditation or selfish idleness?  No.  The active bad man is often more useful to the world than the naturally good or harmless man who is a mere drone.  Only the brave soldier receives the laurels of his country’s gratitude; the skulking coward is execrated by all.”

The only response on the part of Markland was a deep sigh.  He saw the truth that would make him free, but did not feel within himself a power sufficient to break the cords that bound him.  The two men walked on in silence, until they came near a lovely retreat, half obscured by encircling trees, the scene of Fanny’s recent and impassioned interview with Mr. Lyon.  The thoughts of Mr. Allison at once reverted to his own meeting with Fanny in the same place, and the disturbed condition of mind in which he found her.  The image of Mr. Lyon also presented itself.  As the two men paused, at a point where the fountain and some of the fine statues were visible, Mr. Allison said, with an abruptness that gave the pulse of his companion a sudden acceleration—­

“Did your English friend, Mr. Lyon, really go South, before you left New York?”

“He did.  But why do you make the inquiry?” Mr. Markland turned, and fixed his eyes intently upon the old man’s face.

“I was sure that I met him a day or two ago.  But I was mistaken, as a man cannot be in two places at once.”

“Where did you see the person you took for Mr. Lyon?”

“Not far distant from here?”

“Where?”

“A little way from the railroad station.  He was coming in this direction, and, without questioning the man’s identity, I naturally supposed that he was on his way to your house.”

“Singular!  Very singular!” Mr. Markland spoke to himself.

“I met Fanny a little while afterward,” continued Mr. Allison, “and I learned from her that Mr. Lyon had actually left the city.  No doubt I was mistaken; but the person I saw was remarkably like your friend from England.”

“Where did you meet Fanny?” abruptly asked Mr. Markland.

“In the little summer-house, yonder.  I stepped aside, as I often do, to enjoy the quiet beauty of the place for a few moments, and found your daughter there alone.  She answered, as you have done, my inquiry about Mr. Lyon, that he left for the South a few days before.”

“He did.  And yet, singularly enough, you are not the only one who has mentioned to me that a person resembling Mr. Lyon was seen after he had left for the South—­seen, too, almost on the very day that letters from him arrived by mail.  The coincidence is at least remarkable.”