them and myself that wouldn't be at home here on such a day."

There was so much truth in this that Mulrady checked a sigh as he
gave the required permission, without saying that he had intended
to remain. He could cook his own breakfast: he had done it before;
and it would be something to occupy him. As to his dinner, perhaps
he could go to the hotel at Rough-and-Ready. He worked on until
the night had well advanced. Then, overcome with a certain
restlessness that disturbed him, he was forced to put his books and
papers away. It had begun to blow in fitful gusts, and
occasionally the rain was driven softly across the panes like the
passing of childish fingers. This disturbed him more than the
monotony of silence, for he was not a nervous man. He seldom read
a book, and the county paper furnished him only the financial and
mercantile news which was part of his business. He knew he could
not sleep if he went to bed. At last he rose, opened the window,
and looked out from pure idleness of occupation. A splash of
wheels in the distant muddy road and fragments of a drunken song
showed signs of an early wandering reveller. There were no lights
to be seen at the closed works; a profound darkness encompassed the
house, as if the distant pines in the hollow had moved up and round
it. The silence was broken now only by the occasional sighing of
wind and rain. It was not an inviting night for a perfunctory
walk; but an idea struck him--he would call upon the Slinns, and
anticipate his next day's visit! They would probably have company,
and be glad to see him: he could tell the girls of Mamie and her
success. That he had not thought of this before was a proof of his
usual self-contained isolation, that he thought of it now was an
equal proof that he was becoming at last accessible to loneliness.
He was angry with himself for what seemed to him a selfish