g himself. "Rather a melancholy
place to make acquaintance in, I should think, that Valley you spoke of.
I should like to know about it."

Mr. Clement had the power of looking steadily into another person's eyes
in a way that was by no means encouraging to curiosity or favorable to
the process of cross-examination. Mr. Bradshaw was not disposed to press
his question in the face of the calm, repressive look the young man gave
him.

"If he was n't bagged, I shouldn't like the shape of things any too
well," he said to himself.

The conversation between Mr. Clement Lindsay and Miss Susan Posey, as
they walked home together, was not very brilliant. "I am going to-morrow
morning," he said, "and I must bid you good-by tonight." Perhaps it is as
well to leave two lovers to themselves, under these circumstances.

Before he went he spoke to his worthy host, whose moderate demands he had
to satisfy, and with whom he wished to exchange a few words.

"And by the way, Deacon, I have no use for this book, and as it is in a
good type, perhaps you would like it. Your favorite, Scott, and one of
his greatest works. I have another edition of it at home, and don't care
for this volume."

"Thank you, thank you, Mr. Lindsay, much obleeged. I shall read that
copy for your sake, the best of books next to the Bible itself."

After Mr. Lindsay had gone, the Deacon looked at the back of the book.
"Scott's Works, Vol. IX." He opened it at hazard, and happened to fall
on a well-known page, from which he began reading aloud, slowly,

"When Izrul, of the Lord beloved,
Out of the land of bondage came."

The whole hymn pleased the grave Deacon. He had never seen this work of
the author of the Commentary. No matter; anything that such a good man
wrote must be good reading, and he would save it up for Sunday. The
consequence of this was, that, when the Rev. Mr. Stoker stopped in on his
way to meeting on the "Sabbath," he turned white with horror at the
spectacle of the senior Deacon of his church sitting, open-mouthed and
wide-eyed, absorbed in the pages of "Ivanhoe," which he found enormously
interesting; but, so far as he had yet read, not occupied with religious
matters so much as he had expected.

Myrtle had no explanation to give of her nervous attack. Mr. Bradshaw
called the day after the party, but did not see her. He met her walking,
and thought she seemed a little more distant than common. That would
never do.