RODERICK HUDSON
could say of her, things I could say to her—because I know, or at least did know—that made her more beautiful, put her into possession of more of her value. Therefore I should like to see it just once more; it 's the only thing in the world of which I can say so."
"I would n't advise it," Rowland felt himself too meagrely repeat.
"That's right, my dear fellow," his friend returned. "Don't advise! That 's no use now."
The dusk meanwhile had thickened, and they had not perceived a figure approaching them across the open space in front of the house. Suddenly it stepped into the circle of light projected from the door and windows and they beheld little Sam Singleton stopping to stare at them. He was the giant they had seen so strikingly presented. When this was made apparent Roderick was seized with high amusement; it was the first time he had laughed for ever so many weeks. Singleton, who carried a knapsack and walking-staff, received from Rowland the friendliest welcome. He was still the same almost irritating little image of happy diligence, and if in the way of luggage his knapsack contained nothing but a comb and a second shirt, he extracted from it a dozen admirable sketches. He had been trudging over half Switzerland and making everywhere the most vivid pictorial notes. They were mostly in a box at Interlaken, and in gratitude for Rowland's appreciation he presently telegraphed for his box, which, according to the excellent Swiss method, was punctually delivered by post. The nights were cold, and our friends, with three or four other chance sojourners, sat indoors, over a fire of
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