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The old friends were forced to think of each other often, for both were rising in the world, and rising into general esteem and respectability. The name of the one was often mentioned with approbation in the presence of the other; and it sometimes happened that they were thrown together in such a way as to render their position toward each other really embarrassing: as, for instance, one was called to preside at a public meeting, and the other chosen secretary. Neither could refuse, and there had to be an official intercourse between them; it was cold and formal in the extreme; and neither could see as he looked into the eyes of the other, a glimmer of the old light of friendship.

Mr. Wellford was present at this meeting, and marked the fact that the intercourse between Arnest and Marston was official only–that they did not unbend to each other in the least. He was grieved to see it, for he knew the good qualities of both, and he had a high respect for them.

“This must not be,” said he to himself, as he walked thoughtfully homeward. “They are making themselves unhappy, and preventing a concert of useful efforts for good in society, and all for nothing. I will try again to reconcile them; perhaps I may be more successful than before.”

So, on the next day, the old gentleman made it his business to call upon Arnest, who expressed great pleasure in meeting him.

“I noticed,” said Mr. Wellford, after he had conversed some time, and finally introduced the subject of the meeting on the previous evening, “that your intercourse with the secretary was exceedingly formal; in fact, hardly courteous.”

“I don’t like Marston, as you are very well aware,” replied Arnest.

“In which feeling you stand nearly alone, friend Arnest. Mr. Marston is highly esteemed by all who know him.”

“All don’t know him as I do.”

“Perhaps others know him better than you do; there may lie the difference.”

“If a man knocks me down, I know the weight of his arm much better than those who have never felt it.”

“Still nursing your anger, still harbouring unkind thoughts! Forgive and forget, my friend–forgive and forget; no longer let the sun go down upon your wrath.”

“I can forgive, Mr. Wellford–I do forgive; for Heaven knows I wish him no harm; but I cannot forget: that is asking too much.”

“You do not forget, because you will not forgive,” replied the old gentleman. “Forgive, and you will soon forget. I am sure you will both be happier in forgetting than you can be in remembering the past.”

But Arnest shook his head, remarking, as he so–“I would rather let things remain as they are. At least, I cannot stoop to any humiliating overtures for a reconciliation. When Marston outraged my feelings so wantonly, I wrote him a pretty warm expression of my sentiments in regard to his conduct. This gave him mortal offence. I do not now remember what I wrote, but nothing, certainly, to have prevented his coming forward and apologizing for his conduct; but he did not choose to do this, and there the matter rests. I cannot recall the angry rebuke I gave him, for it was no doubt just.”

“A man who writes a letter in a passion, and afterwards forgets what he has written,” said Mr. Wellford, “may be sure that he has said what his sober reason cannot approve. If you could have the letter you then sent before you now, I imagine that you would no longer wonder that Marston was offended.”

“That is impossible; without doubt, he burned my note the moment he received it.”

Mr. Wellford tried in vain to induce Arnest to consent to forget what was past; but he affirmed that this was impossible, and that he had no wish to renew an acquaintance with his old friend.

About the same time that this interview took place, Marston was alone, thinking with sad and softened feelings of the past. The letter of Arnest was before him; he had turned it over by accident.