If the next month were over, I should not have to trouble any one.
"Yours affectionately, "J.

STERLING." Busy weeks indeed; and a glowing smithy-light coming through the chinks!--The romance of _Arthur Coningsby_ lay written, or half-written, in his desk; and here, in his heart and among his hands, was an acted romance and unknown catastrophes keeping pace with that.
Doubts from the doctors, for his health was getting ominous, threw some shade over the adventure.

Reproachful reminiscences of Coleridge and Theosophy were natural too; then fond regrets for Literature and its glories: if you act your romance, how can you also write it?
Regrets, and reproachful reminiscences, from Art and Theosophy; perhaps some tenderer regrets withal.

A crisis in life had come; when, of innumerable possibilities one possibility was to be elected king, and to swallow all the rest, the rest of course made noise enough, and swelled themselves to their biggest.
Meanwhile the ship was fast getting ready: on a certain day, it was to drop quietly down the Thames; then touch at Deal, and take on board Torrijos and his adventurers, who were to be in waiting and on the outlook for them there.

Let every man lay in his accoutrements, then; let every man make his packages, his arrangements and farewells.
Sterling went to take leave of Miss Barton.