morning at two or three of the hotels, and at last I discovered his
whereabouts. But he was out, the waiter said; he had gone to walk an
hour before. I went my way, confident that I should meet him in the
evening. It was the rule with the Homburg world to spend its evenings at
the Kursaal, and Pickering, apparently, had already discovered a good
reason for not being an exception. One of the charms of Homburg is the
fact that of a hot day you may walk about for a whole afternoon in
unbroken shade. The umbrageous gardens of the Kursaal mingle with the
charming Hardtwald, which in turn melts away into the wooded slopes of
the Taunus Mountains. To the Hardtwald I bent my steps, and strolled for
an hour through mossy glades and the still, perpendicular gloom of the
fir-woods. Suddenly, on the grassy margin of a by-path, I came upon a
young man stretched at his length in the sun-checkered shade, and kicking
his heels towards a patch of blue sky. My step was so noiseless on the
turf that, before he saw me, I had time to recognise Pickering again. He
looked as if he had been lounging there for some time; his hair was
tossed about as if he had been sleeping; on the grass near him, beside
his hat and stick, lay a sealed letter. When he perceived me he jerked
himself forward, and I stood looking at him without introducing
myself--purposely, to give him a chance to recognise me. He put on his
glasses, being awkwardly near-sighted, and stared up at me with an air of
general trustfulness, but without a sign of knowing me. So at last I
introduced myself. Then he jumped up and grasped my hands, and stared
and blushed and laughed, and began a dozen random questions, ending with
a demand as to how in the world I had known him.

"Why, you are not changed so utterly," I said; "and after all, it's but
fifteen years since you used to do my Latin exercises for me."

"Not changed, eh?" he answered, still smiling, and yet speaking with a