“A few days before my meeting with Francis, I had received tidings of the death of an old relative, whom I scarcely knew.  In my childhood I had, on one or two occasions, spent my holidays at his house.  He was gloomy and taciturn, but nevertheless he had always welcomed me kindly.  I have a vague remembrance of having been told that he had been in love with my mother once upon a time, and that on hearing of her marriage he had retired into the solitude which he never left till the day of his death.  Be that as it may, I had not lost my place in his affections, it seems:  he had continued to feel an interest in me; and on his deathbed he had remembered me, and left me the greater part of his not very considerable fortune.  I inherited little money; but there was a small, comfortably-furnished country-house, and an adjoining farm let on a long lease for two hundred and forty pounds per annum.  This was wealth for me, and more than enough to satisfy all my wants.  Since I had heard of this legacy I had been doubtful as to my movements.  My chance meeting with Francis settled the matter.  I resolved at once to leave America, and to return to live in my native country.  I knew your address, and wrote to you at once.  I trusted that the sight of my old and only friend would console me for the disappointments that life has inflicted on me—­and I have not been deceived.  At last I have been able to open my heart to a fellow-creature, and relieve myself of the heavy burden which I have borne alone ever since our separation.  Now I feel lighter.  You are not a severe judge.  Doubtless you deplore my weakness, but you do not condemn me.  If, as I have already said, I have done no good, neither have I committed any wicked action.  I have been a nonentity—­an utterly useless being; ‘one too many,’ like the sad hero of Tourgueneff’s sad story.  Before leaving, I wrote to Francis informing him that the death of a relative obliged me to return to Europe, and giving him your address, so as not to seem to be running away from him.  Then I went on board, and at last reached your home.  Dixi!”

Warren, who during this long story had taken care to keep his pipe alight, and had, moreover, nearly drained the bottle of port placed before him, now declared himself ready to listen to his friend’s confession.  But Hermann had been saddened by all he had heard, and was in no humor for talking.  He remarked that it was getting late, and proposed to postpone any further conversation till the morrow.

Warren merely answered, “Very well,” knocked the ashes out of his pipe, shared out the remainder of the wine between his host and himself, and, raising his glass, said, in a somewhat solemn tone, “To our youth, Hermann!” After emptying his glass at one draught, be replaced it on the table, and said complacently, “It is long since I have drunk with so much pleasure; for this time I have not drunk to forgetfulness, but to memory.”

II.