But—what is the matter? You remind me of a certain river I have read about in Bohn's translation of 'Herodotus.' The river flowed sweet from its source for many miles, but finally a tiny rill of bitterness entered it, and throughout the rest of its course to the sea the waters had lost their freshness."
"Not so, Mr. Welsh," said Arminell with a smile. "At least, I trust not. May I not rather have reached the point to which the tide mounts. It is not bitterness that is in me, but just a smack of the salt of the mighty far-off ocean that runs up the estuary of life, and qualifies sooner or later the water of every soul?"
"What has troubled you? I'm sure something has gone wrong."
"I have been with Thomasine to see your nephew."
"What—Jingles! you should not have done that."
"Thomasine had paid a visit to Mrs. Bankes, the landlady of the house where Mrs. Saltren lodged before she married and departed; and the good woman told the girl something about Mr. Saltren that made me uneasy. So I went to see him."
"You have acted inconsiderately," said James Welsh.
"I do not say that it was a proper and prudent thing to do, and yet, under the circumstances, justifiable, and I have no doubt you will forgive me."
"You must make a full confession before I pronounce the absolution," said the journalist.
"Thomasine goes occasionally to see the good woman of the lodgings and her servant, and she heard so sad an account of your nephew that she communicated it to me."
"What is the matter with him? I have not seen the cock-sparrow for three months, and what is more, I do not want to see him; I can never forgive him for what he has done."
"He knows how you regard him, and that is the reason
