And Barry began whistling wildly,
as he invariably does when annoyed. After using up a variety of popular airs, the shadow of his good-humor returned to him.
"Ralph," he said, taking my hand, "I have a great respect for you. I don't know why, to be frank, but I have. I like your little song of—what do you call it?—in Putnam's Monthly, and your prose sketches in the Knickerbocker; but don't be a fool, Ralph!"
With which piece of friendly advice, he put on his brown felt hat, drew it over his brows, and stalked out of the room, with
"A countenance more
In sorrow than in anger,"
like Mr. Hamlet's father.
I saw no more of Barescythe for two weeks.
The nights were growing longer. The air had a vein of sparkling cold in it; at every gust the trees in the Parade Ground shook down golden ingots; and the grass-plots, and the graveled walks, and the marble bowl of the fountain, were paved with emerald and amethyst—a mosaic flooring of tinted leaves. The clouds were haggard faces, and the wind wailed like a broken heart. Indeed,