him away from the bitter and busy world within. But now he had a better motive than the mere desire of amusement—he was most anxious for Maynard's success. One of the first things he had done in London, was to find Walter—not a very easy task. Walter shrank from his society with the sensitiveness that belongs to pride and poverty. But Courtenaye would not allow his advances to be rejected; he interested himself in the other's pursuits, and foresaw their future fame. No poet could reject a friend who was also a prophet, and of his own success.
Norbourne was punctual to his appointment; but Maynard was there before him. He found him pacing the little sanded parlour of the tavern appointed for the place of meeting, with irregular and hasty steps: his slight frame quivered with uncontrollable emotion, and his face was absolutely white with agitation. He took Norbourne's hand in silence, and they had walked the length of several streets before he found voice to thank him for coming. When he arrived at the door of the theatre
