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My chief regret is that I was not present when Henry and Sinfire met. To one who knew what to look for, as I did, that could not have failed to reveal something. But when I came in the meeting had already taken place, and Sinfire had retired to her room. "She is always so thoughtful,—so much tact," mother remarked. "She fancied we could talk more freely with Henry if she were not present. Though, really, I look upon her as quite a member of the family, apart from her being my niece."

All the time that Henry and I were exchanging our greetings and congratulations, and our first questions and answers, I was speculating about him and Sinfire. He has been changed, improved, and also in some respects injured, by his life in the world; but, on the whole, he appears more improved and less injured than might have been anticipated. His being thirty years old instead of twenty-five is enough, of itself, to account for a great deal. The youthful outlines of his face have matured; it is the face of a good-humored man of the world, somewhat unprincipled and reckless, perhaps, but what is called a thorough good fellow; and then there is that gleam of genius in his eyes, and in some of his unconscious manifestations, that must always mark a difference between him and the type to which he otherwise belongs. Yet it is easy to see that his physical and social nature—the life of the senses and external faculties—has been too much for his genius: his spiritual intuitions have never gained control of him. He has done nothing but "have a good time," or aim to have it. The pictures he might have painted, the books he might have written, the music he might have composed, are all in the limbo of the unborn. It is a great pity; though I don't think Henry himself is oppressed by any regrets on that score. He probably thinks he could set to work, if he chose, and produce a masterpiece at any moment. But the time for that possibility is gone by. He has taken his final direction, though he may not know it. In some respects he is already an older man than either John or I. There are lines about his mouth, and at the corners of his eyes, that tell a tale—in a man of thirty! And during the twenty-four hours that he has been with us, I notice that he not only smokes constantly, but that he drinks altogether too much. He does not drink as John does, until he is drunk and done with it; he is never drunk; but he is always taking "nips" of brandy from his pocket-flask, and I fancy he empties it at least twice a day. Nevertheless, barring a little nervous disorder, his health seems fairly sound. The