"Ah, miss, YOU write!" "Well--tonight," I at last answered; and on this we separated. Not a sound, on the way, had passed between us, and I had wondered-- oh, HOW I had wondered!--if he were groping about in his little mind for something plausible and not too grotesque. "Did you know I mightn't go back?" "I know everything. The pages of his time-worn Horace never felt cold to the touch even when his own fingers were cold; they were human pages and fifty years before they had been turned by the human fingers of John Duncan Inverarity and by his brother, William Malcolm Inverarity.