n other means of
analysis. He would try him a little in talk.

"I hope you like these people you are with. What sort of a man do you
find my old friend the Deacon?"

Clement laughed. "A very queer old character. Loves his joke as well,
and is as sly in making it, as if he had studied Joe Miller instead of
the Catechism."

Mr. Bradshaw looked at the young man to know what he meant. Mr. Lindsay
talked in a very easy way for a serious young person. He was puzzled.
He did not see to the bottom of this description of the Deacon. With a
lawyer's instinct, he kept his doubts to himself and tried his witness
with a new question.

"Did you talk about books at all with the old man?"

"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 know