and there, on Bytown wharf, some hundred
of them were standing on a bright July
morning, in the year eighteen hundred and
fifty, when I, being at that time engaged in
Canada in the civil service of her Majesty,
lounged in amongst them.

The entrance of a stranger into such an
assembly never passes unnoticed; and, as
I moved among the different groups every
head was raised, my personal appearance
was scanned by all, and made the subject of
free comment by many of them. I waited
for nearly an hour, puffing my cigar and
listening to the loud laughter, the noisy
altercation, and the queer jargon of the
people round me, and was almost lapsing
into a curious day-dream relative to their
previous and future career, when I was
roused by a man who appeared to hold some
superior position among them, and who
ordered them at once to prepare to start.
The instant I set eyes upon this man, I
recognised his features, and a painful sensation
that we had met before, and under unpleasant
circumstances, came over me. He was
young, handsome, and, in spite of his rough
costume, looked like a gentleman; his hands,
too, though tanned by the sun, were well-
shaped; and, as he pointed towards the
river, I noticed on his little finger a thin
hoop of gold, like the guard-rings worn
by women, which must have been there
some time, as the flesh seemed to have
tightened beneath it. I could not recollect
who he was, nor where I had seen him. I
looked .again; and, as I stood with open
mouth and eyes, gazing at him, he turned
sharply round, and our eyes met. But for an
instant though; for, flushing scarlet, he
turned on his heel: and, followed by a body
of the lumberers, strode rapidly away.

To a person of nervous temperament like
myself, such a circumstance was particularly
unpleasant. It was plain that the recognition
between this man and me had been
mutual, and it was equally evident that he
too must have had some unpleasant recollection
of our former acquaintance; or why
should he have hurried away so abruptly?
Who could he be? I worried myself with
this question all day; and, when I went
to bed at night, turned over incident after
incident of my past life, but could connect
that face with none of them. Where had
we met, and what made the recollection
painful? Could he have been at school with
me at Lowebarre, and, as a monitor, have
thrashed, and bullied, and tortured me?
No; no one did that but Gandler, and I
knew that Gandler was then a drysalter in
Cripplegate. Could he have been with me
at Bonn, and did we quarrel and go out to
Poppelsdorf and have it out with short-
swords? No; Leisten was my only opponent
in that way, and he is dead, poor fellow.
Had he stood in my way in love, in business,
in pleasure ? Was he an editor who had
refused my contributions, a lawyer who had
sued me on a writ, a rival joker, and diner-
out in society? He was none of these.

I was up early the next morning, and off
on my journey to Calumet Island, a small
settlement of French Canadians, Americans,
and Irishmen, some fifty miles further
towards the source of the Ottawa. As I
proceeded on my monotonous route my
brain once more fell to work, trying to solve
the mystery of the previous day. Passing
through the little village of Clarendon, I was
surprised to find the one main-street thronged
by the inhabitants all dressed in holiday
costume, and I found, on inquiry, that they were
assembling to witness the laying of the first
log of a new church. Of course I stopped
to see the ceremony, which was performed
by the village clergyman; a fine white-haired
old man, who invoked a fervent blessing on
the undertaking. I had no sooner resumed
my journey than suddenly the whole story
of my mysterious acquaintance flashed across
me. I am not sufficiently versed in
metaphysics or the subtler theories of mental
pathology to explain how this occurred; my
belief is that the sight of the clergyman and
of the gaily-dressed villagers re-awakened
the slumbering reminiscence, and solved the
mystery.

Three years previously, after a long and
dangerous illness, I had been removed to a
sea-side watering-place in Wales, which I
shall call Plenmouth. Watering-place? It did
not, in truth, deserve the name. There were no
parades, esplanades, terraces, crescents, no
hotels all stucco and plate-glass, no boarding-
houses all ancient single lady and three-card
loo; there were no yachting-men, no
dreadnoughts, and pea-jackets, no telescopes, no
mushroom hats, no yellow slippers, no small
wooden spades, no invalid chairs, no half-
crown-an-hour flys, no German bands, no
goat chaises, no donkey—nothing which
we Londoners recognise as the characteristics
of a well-conditioned watering-place.
But there was pure air, a fine open sea, good
bathing, and—what was most essential
to a person in my condition—perfect
quiet. There, in walking, swimming, reading,
and writing, I passed three very happy
weeks. At the end of this time I made the
acquaintance of the clergyman of the parish.
With him, and with his wife and daughter, I
was soon on excellent terms, and I should
probably have become more intimate, but
that the attention of the family was entirely
absorbed in an approaching event—the
marriage of the young lady to a Mr. Hugh
Elvyn, the son of the principal partner in a
London banking firm. The wedding was
to take place within a fortnight after my
first introduction to them. She was a girl,
full of animal spirits, and apparently madly
in love with her future husband; whom she
had met the previous season in London while
on a visit to her aunt, and about whom she