"Not a penny--at the moment. My supplies have not reached my new address."

And Hoffland laughed.

"Let me lend you some. How much will you have? We are friends, you know, Charles, and you can have no feelings of delicacy in borrowing from me. See," said Mowbray, taking out his purse, "I have a plenty of pistoles. Take a dozen."

"And how many will you have left?"

"Let me see--there are thirteen. I shall still have enough. There are twelve, Charles."

And he counted them out, leaving the single coin in his purse.

Hoffland, however, drew back, and obstinately closed his hands.

"You ought to be ashamed to tempt an inexperienced youth to go in debt," he said; "that is your fine guardianship, Mr. Mowbray."

"Come, Charles; this is folly. You do not become my debtor; I do not want the money. Take it, and repay it when your own comes."

"No, I will not. But still I want a pair of gloves. Do me a greater favor still, Ernest. Give me those pretty fringed gloves you wear, and which are plainly too small for your huge hands. I know Miss Lucy gave them to you, for she said as much the other day--I asked her!--and now I want them. Don't refuse me, Ernest; my hand is much smaller and handsomer than yours, and they will just fit me."

Mowbray took off the gloves, asking himself, with a sad smile, what charm this boy exercised over him.

"There they are then, Charles," he said; "I can refuse you nothing."

"Suppose I asked for the hand as well as the gloves?"

"The hand? Perfectly at your service," said Mowbray, holding out his hand; "I can only give it to you in a friendly spirit, however, and there it is."

"No," said Hoffland, drawing back; "I will not accept it upon those terms--but I have the gloves. Thank you, Ernest. Perhaps some day I may ask you to accept a present from me; or at least I promise not to refuse you if you ask what I have this moment refused."

And laughing heartily, Hoffland cried:

"Just look at those flowers! and there is the great city of Williamsburg! We pa.s.s from Indian Camps to learned halls--from barbarism to civilization. Come! let us get into Gloucester street--that promenade of elegance and fashion! Come on, Ernest!"

And they entered the town.

CHAPTER XXIII.

HOW SIR ASINUS FISHED FOR SWALLOWS, AND WHAT HE CAUGHT.

Gloucester Street was alive with a motley crowd of every description, from the elegant dame who drove by in her fine four-horse chariot with its outriders, to the most obscure denizen of the surrounding old field, come on this particular day to Williamsburg, in view of the great ball to be held at the _Raleigh_ tavern.

Mowbray and Hoffland gazed philosophically upon the moving crowd, but threaded their way onward, without much comment. Hoffland was anxious to reach his lodging, it seemed; the culminating sun had already made his face rosy with its warm radiance, and he held a white handkerchief before his eyes to protect them.

"It is growing very warm," he said; "really, Ernest, I think your present will come into active use before the summer."

"My gloves?"

"No, mine."

"Ah, well, Charles," continued Ernest, "we ought to rejoice in the warmth, inasmuch as it is better for the poor than cold--the winter.

Let us not complain."

"I do not; but I see precious few poor about now: they all seem to be rejoicing, without needing any a.s.sistance therein from us. Look at that fine chariot."

"At Madam Finette's door?"

"Yes."

"I think I recognise the driver--Tom, from Mrs. Wimple's," said Mowbray calmly.

"Mrs. Wimple--who is she?"

"A lady, at whose house I suffered one of my cruellest disappointments," said Mowbray with a shadowed brow; "let us not speak of that!"

"Of what?"

"You do not understand?"

"I? Of course not."

"It was there that I was told, by the woman I loved, how despicable I was," said Mowbray with a cruel tremor of his pale lip.

"Oh--yes--pardon me," Hoffland said; and turning aside his head, he murmured, "Men--men! how blind you are! yes, high-gravel blind!" and looking again at Mowbray, Hoffland perceived that his face had become calm again.

"I promised Lucy to bring home some little articles from this place,"

he said calmly; "go in with me a moment, Charles."

Hoffland drew back.

"No," he said; "I believe--I have--I think I'd rather not."

"I will detain you but a moment."

Hoffland's glance plunged itself into the interior of Madam Finette's emporium; and the consequence was that the young gentleman retreated three steps.

"I don't think I have time," he said laughing; "but I'll wait for you here: the sun is warm, but I can easily protect my face by holding my handkerchief to it."

And taking up his position in the vestibule, so to speak, of the shop, Hoffland placed himself as much out of view as possible, and waited.

Spite of the fact that the sun's rays did not penetrate to the spot which he occupied, the white handkerchief was still used as a shade.

Mowbray entered and approached Madam Finette.

But that lady was busy; her counter was covered with magnificent silks, ribbons, velvets and laces, which she was unrolling, folding up, drawing out, and chattering about, as fast as her small hands and agile tongue would permit. Before her stood a lady, who, accompanied by her cavalier, was engaged in the momentous task of making up her mind what colors of velvet and satin ribbon she should select.

The lady was young and smiling--cheerful and graceful. When she laughed, the musical chime of the timepiece overhead was drowned, and died away; when she smiled, the sunlight seemed to have darted one of its brightest beams into the shop. The gentleman was elegant and melancholy: he looked like Endymion on Latmos trying to recall his dream, or like Narcissus fading into shadow. His costume resembled a variegated Dutch tulip; his hair was powdered to excess; he sighed and whispered sadly, and looked at the lady.