discover some indication that he was going to exchange the impassable street for the comfortable shelter of his lodgings. If Young stayed too long, Fred would push him gently with his nose as if to wake him out of his day-dream. Sandy would then move on again; but he never went home till the storm had abated or night had set in. This strange, aimless walking up and down gave him the appearance of a man who has missed his railway-train, and who, at some strange, uninteresting station, seeks to while away the time till the next departure.
Young must have brought some money with him to Yokohama, for he lived on for several weeks without seeking employment. At the end of that time, however, he advertised in the Japan Times to the effect that he had set up in business as public accountant. In this capacity he soon got some employment. He was a steady, conscientious worker, rather slow at his work, and evidently not caring to earn more than was required for his wants. In this way he became acquainted with Mr. James Webster, the head of an important American firm, who, after employing Young on several occasions, at last offered him an excellent situation as assistant bookkeeper in his house. This offer Sandy declined with thanks.
"I do not know how long I may remain out here," he said. "I expect letters from home which may oblige me to leave at once."
Those letters never came, and Sandy grew paler and sadder every day. One evening he went to call on James Webster. A visit from Sandy Young was such an unusual occurrence that Webster, who, as a rule, did not liked to be disturbed, came forward to greet his visitor. But Sandy would not come in; he remained at the entrance, leaning against the open door. His speech and manner were calm and even careless; and Webster was consequently somewhat surprised to hear that he had come to take leave.
"Sit down, man," said Webster, "and take a soda-and-brandy and a cheroot."
"No, thank you," replied Young. "I leave early to-morrow morning; and I have only just time to get my things ready."
"So you are really going away?" said Webster. "Well, I am sorry you would not stay with us. As it is, I can only wish you good luck and a prosperous voyage."
He held out his hand, which Young pressed so warmly that Webster looked at him with some surprise; and as he looked, it seemed to him that there was moisture in Sandy Young's eyes.
"Why won't you stay?" continued Webster, who felt a curious interest in the sad, quiet man. "The place I offered you the other day is still there."
Young remained silent for a few moments. Then he shook his head, and said gently, "No, thanks. You are very kind, but I had better go. … What should I do here? Japan is a fine country; but it is so very small — always the same blue sea, the same white Fusyyama, and the same people riding the same horses and followed by the same dogs. I am tired of it all. … You must admit, Mr. Webster, that life is not highly amusing out here."
There was a short pause, after which Sandy resumed, but speaking more slowly and in still lower tones, "I think there must be a typhoon in the air; I feel so weary. … I do not think, Mr. Webster, that you can ever have felt as tired as I do. I thought we were going to have a storm this morning. It would perhaps have done me good. This has been a very close, heavy day. … Well, good-night, I did not like to leave Yokohama without bidding you good-bye, and thanking you for all your friendliness."
He moved away with hesitating steps; and when he had gone a few paces he turned round and waved his hand to Webster, who was following him with his eye.
"I thank you again, Mr. Webster," he repeated, with almost pathetic earnestness. "I wish you a very good night." And so he disappeared into the darkness.
That night a terrific storm burst over Yokohama, but it came too late to revive poor, weary Sandy. He was found dead in his bedroom the next morning, having hanged himself during the night. On the table lay a large sheet of paper with the following words written in a bold hand, "Please take care of Fred."
Nothing was found in Sandy's trunk but some shabby clothes and a bundle of old letters which had evidently been read over and over again. They were without envelopes, dated from Limerick, 1855 and 1856, and merely signed, "Louisa." They were examined carefully in the hope that they might furnish some clue to Sandy's parentage and connections; but they were love-letters — mere love-letters — and contained nothing that could interest any one but poor Sandy himself. There was a frequent mention of a father and a mother in these letters, and it was clear that they had
