RODERICK HUDSON
Rowland always enjoyed meeting him; talking with him in these days was as good as a wayside gush of clear cold water on a long hot walk. There was perhaps no drinking-vessel, and you had to apply your lips to some informal conduit; but the result was always a sense of extreme moral refreshment. On this occasion he mentally blessed his ingenuous friend and heard presently with regret that he was to leave Rome on the morrow. Singleton had come to take leave of the great basilica, where he was gathering a few last impressions. He had earned a pocketful of money and was meaning to take a summer's holiday; going to Switzerland, to Germany, to Paris. In the autumn he was to return home; his family—composed, as Rowland knew, of a father, who was cashier in a bank, and five unmarried sisters, one of whom gave lyceum lectures on woman's rights, the whole resident at Buffalo, N. Y.—had been writing him peremptory letters and appealing to him as son, brother and fellow-citizen. He would have been grateful for another year in Rome, but he submitted to fate the more patiently that he had laid up treasure which at Buffalo would seem infinite. They talked some time; Rowland hoped they might meet in Switzerland and take a walk or two together. Singleton seemed to feel that Buffalo had marked him for her own; he was afraid he should not see Rome again for many a year.
"So you expect to live at Buffalo?" Rowland enquired as they looked down the splendid avenue of the nave.
"Well, it will depend upon the views—upon the attitude—of my family. Oh, I think I shall get on;
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