is curious what tricks a quarrel, or even a short absence, can play with our mental picture of even our most intimate friends. A few minutes later, as Master Ambrose looked at his old playmate standing at the door, grinning a little sheepishly, he felt as if he had just awakened from a nightmare. This was not “the most criminally negligent Mayor with whom the town of Lud-in-the-Mist had ever been cursed;” still less was it the sinister figure evoked by Endymion Leer. It was just queer old Nat, whom he had known all his life.
