"To be sure I did. Would you believe it, that aged saint is a great novel-reader. So he tells me. What is more, he brings up his children to that sort of reading, from the time when they first begin to spell. If anybody else had told me such a story about an old country deacon, I wouldn't have believed it; but he said so himself, to me, at breakfast this morning."
Mr. Bradshaw felt as if either he or Mr. Lindsay must certainly be in the first stage of mild insanity, and he did not think that he himself could be out of his wits. He must try one more question. He had become so mystified that he forgot himself, and began putting his interrogation in legal form.
"Will you state, if you please—I beg your pardon—may I ask who is your own favorite author?"
"I think just now I like to read Scott better than almost anybody."
"Do you mean the Rev. Thomas Scott, author of the Commentary?"
Clement stared at Mr. Bradshaw, and wondered whether he was trying to make a fool of him. The young lawyer hardly looked as if he could be a fool himself.
"I mean Sir Walter Scott," he said, dryly.
"Oh!" said Mr. Bradshaw. He saw that there had been a slight misunderstanding between the young man and his worthy host, but it was none of his business, and there were other subjects of interest to talk about.
"You know one of our charming young ladies very well, I believe, Mr. Lindsay. I think you are an old acquaintance of Miss Posey, whom we all consider so pretty."
Poor Clement! The question pierced to the very marrow of his soul, but it was put with the utmost suavity and courtesy, and honeyed with a compliment to the young lady, too, so that there was no avoiding a direct and pleasant answer to it.
"Yes," he said, "I have known the young lady you speak of for a long time, and very well,—in fact, as you must have heard, we are something more than friends. My visit here is principally on her account."
"You must give the rest of us a chance to see something of you during your visit, Mr. Lindsay. I hope you are invited to Miss Eveleth's this evening?"
"Yes, I got a note this morning. Tell me, Mr. Bradshaw, who is there that I shall meet this evening if I go? I have no doubt there are girls here I should like to see, and perhaps some young fellows that I should like to talk with. You know all that's prettiest and pleasantest, of course."
"O, we're a little place, Mr. Lindsay. A few nice people, the rest comme ça, you know. High-bush blackberries and low-bush blackberries,—you understand,—just so everywhere,—high-bush here and there, low-bush plenty. You must see the two parsons' daughters,—Saint Ambrose's and Saint Joseph's,—and another girl I want particularly to introduce you to. You shall form your own opinion of her. I call her handsome and stylish, but you have got spoiled, you know. Our young poet, too, one we raised in this place, Mr. Lindsay, and a superior article of poet, as we think,—that is, some of us, for the rest of us are jealous of him, because the girls are all dying for him and want his autograph.—And Cyp,—yes, you must talk to Cyp,—he has ideas. But don't forget to get hold of old Byles—Master Gridley I mean—before you go. Big head. Brains enough for a cabinet minister, and fit out a college faculty with what was left over. Be sure you see old Byles. Set him talking about his book,—'Thoughts on the Universe.' Didn't sell much, but has got knowing things in it. I'll show you a copy, and then you can tell him you know it, and he will take to you. Come in and get your dinner with me tomorrow. We will dine late, as the city folks do, and after that we will go over to the Rector's. I should like to show you some of our village people."
Mr. Bradshaw liked the thought of showing the young man to some of his friends there. As Clement was already
