Again there fell a pause.

"Where have _you_ been, Dillwyn? and what brought you here again?" Tom began now.

"I came to pa.s.s the time," the other said musingly.

"Ah! And where have you pa.s.sed it?"

"Along the sh.o.r.es of the Adriatic, part of the time. At Abazzia, and Sebenico, and the islands."

"What's in all that? I never heard of Abazzia."

"The world is a large place," said Philip absently.

"But what is Abazzia?"

"A little paradise of a place, so sheltered that it is like a nest of all lovely things. Really; it has its own climate, through certain favouring circ.u.mstances; and it is a hidden little nook of delight."

"Ah!--What took you to the sh.o.r.es of the Adriatic, anyhow?"

"Full of interest," said Philip.

"Pray, of what kind?"

"Every kind. Historical, industrial, mechanical, natural, and artistic.

But I grant you, Tom, that was not why I went there. I went there to get out of the ruts of travel and break new ground. Like you, being a little tired of going round in a circle for ever. And it occurs to me that man must have been made for somewhat else than such a purposeless circle. No other creature is a burden to himself."

"Because no other creature thinks," said Tom.

"The power of thought can surely be no final disadvantage."

"I don't see what it amounts to," Tom returned. "A man is happy enough, I suppose, as long as he is busy thinking out some new thing--inventing, creating, discovering, or working out his discoveries; but as soon as he has brought his invention to perfection and set it going, he is tired of it, and drives after something else."

"You are coming to Solomon's judgment," said the other, leaning back upon the cushions and clasping his hands above his head,--"what the preacher says--'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.'"

"Well, so are you," said Tom.

"It makes me ashamed."

"Of what?"

"Myself."

"Why?"

"That I should have lived to be thirty-two years old, and never have done anything, or found any way to be of any good in the world! There isn't a b.u.t.terfly of less use than I!"

"You weren't made to be of use," said Tom.

"Upon my word, my dear fellow, you have said the most disparaging thing, I hope, that ever was said of me! You cannot better that statement, if you think an hour! You mean it of me as a human being, I trust? not as an individual? In the one case it would be indeed melancholy, but in the other it would be humiliating. You take the race, not the personal view. The practical view is, that what is of no use had better not be in existence. Look here--here we are at Murano; I had not noticed it. Shall we land, and see things by moonlight? or go back to Venice?"

"Back, and have dinner," said Tom.

"By way of prolonging this existence, which to you is burdensome and to me is unsatisfactory. Where is the logic of that?"

But they went back, and had a very good dinner too.

CHAPTER XXIX.

AN OX CART.

It happened not far from this same time in the end of August, when Mr.

Dillwyn and Tom Caruthers came together on the Piazzetta of St. Mark, that another meeting took place in the far-away regions of Shampuashuh.

A train going to Boston was stopped by a broken bridge ahead, and its pa.s.sengers discharged in one of the small towns along the coast, to wait until the means of getting over the little river could be arranged. People on a railway journey commonly do not like to wait; it was different no doubt in the days of stage-coaches, when patience had some exercise frequently; now, we are spoiled, and you may notice that ten minutes' delay is often more than can be endured with complacency.

Our fathers and mothers had hours to wait, and took it as a matter of course.

Among the impatient pa.s.sengers thrown out at Independence were two specially impatient.

"What on earth shall we do with ourselves?" said the lady.

"Pity the break-down had not occurred a little further on," said the gentleman. "You might have visited your friend--or Tom's friend--Miss Lothrop. We are just a few miles from Shampuashuh."

"Shampuashuh!--Miss Lothrop!--Was that where she lived? How far, George?"

"A few miles--half a dozen, perhaps."

"O George, let us get horses and drive there!"

"But then you may not catch the train this evening again."

"I don't care. I cannot wait _here_. It would be a great deal better to have the drive and see the other place. Yes, we will go and visit her.

Get horses, George, please! Quick. _This_ is terrible."

"Will you ask for their hospitality?"

"Yes, of course. They would be delighted. That is just what the better sort of country people like, to have somebody come and see them. Make haste, George."

With a queer little smile on his face, Mr. Lenox however did as he was desired. A waggon was procured without very much delay, in which they could be driven to Shampuashuh.

It was a very warm day, and the travellers had just the height of it.

Hot sunbeams poured down upon them; the level, shadeless country through which lay their way, showed as little as it could of the attractive features which really belonged to it. The lady declared herself exceeded by the heat and dust; the gentleman opined they might as well have stayed in Independence, where they were. Between two and three o'clock they entered the long green street of Shampuashuh. The sunbeams seemed tempered there, but it was only a mental effect produced by the quiet beauty and airy s.p.a.ce of the village avenue, and the shade of great elms which fell so frequently upon the wayside gra.s.s.

"What a sweet place!" cried the lady.