Surely I know the nonchalant lounge of that walk--the lazy self-consciousness of that gait, though, when last I saw it, it was not on dewy English turf, but on the baking flags of a foreign town.

It is Mr.Musgrave.Until this moment I have ungratefully forgotten his existence, and all the interesting facts he told me connected with his existence--how his lodge faces ours--how he has no father nor mother, and lives by himself at an abbey.

Alas! in this latter particular, can I not feel for him?
Am _I_ not living by myself at a _hall_?
Vick recognizes him at about the same moment as I do.

Having first sprung at him with that volubility of small but hostile _yaps_, with which she strikes terror into the hearts of tramps, she has now--having _smelt_ him to be not only respectable, but an acquaintance--changed her behavior to a little servile whine and a series of high jumps at his hand.
"It is you, is it ?" cry I, springing up and running to meet him with an elate sensation of company and sociability; "I had quite forgotten that you lived near here.

I'm _so_ glad!" At my happy remark as to having been hitherto oblivious of his existence, his face falls in the old lowering way I remember so well, and that brings back to me so forcibly the Prager Strasse, the Zwinger, the even sunshine, that favored my honey-moon; but at the heartily-expressed joy at seeing him, with which I conclude, he cheers up again.