mewhat negligently tied, and his rusty black dress-coat,
favor that theory. There is a little weariness in his expression, and an
involuntary, half-deferential smile, as if he fully assented to every
thing that might be presented--not because he is especially interested in
it or believes it, but because it is the shortest way of avoiding
discussion and getting back to his own thoughts.

"Gabriel, my son, I am glad to see you!" his father says, as he seats
himself, not opposite his wife, but at one side of the table. He inquires
if Mr. Newt has returned, and learns that he has been at home for several
days. He hopes that he has enjoyed his little journey; then sips his tea,
and looks to see if the windows are closed; shakes himself gently, and
says he feels chilly; that the September evenings are already autumnal,
and that the time is coming when we must begin to read aloud again after
tea. And what book shall we read? Perhaps the best of all we can select
is Irving's Life of Columbus; Mr. Bennet himself has read it in the
previous year, but he is sure his children will be interested and
delighted by it; and, for himself, he likes nothing better than to read
over and over a book he knows and loves. He puts down his knife as
he speaks, and plays with his tea-spoon on the edge of the cup.

"I find myself enchanted with the description of the islands in the
Gulf, and the life of those soft-souled natives. As I read on, I smell
the sweet warm odors from the land; I pick up the branches of green
trees floating far out upon the water; I see the drifting sea-weed,
and the lights at night upon the shore; then I land, and lie under
the palm-trees, and hear the mellow tongue of the tropics; I taste the
luscious fruits; I bask in that rich, eternal sun--" His eyes swim with
tropical languor as he speaks. He still mechanically balances the spoon
upon the cup, while his mind is deep sunk in reverie. As his wife glances
at him, both the look of tenderness and of anxiety in her face deepen.
But the moment of silence rouses him, and with the nervous smile upon his
face, he says, "Oh--ah!--I--yes--let it be Irving's Columbus!"

Toward his wife Mr. Bennet's manner is almost painfully thoughtful. His
eye constantly seeks hers; and when he speaks to her, the mechanical
smile which greets every body else is replaced by a kind of
indescribable, touching appeal for forgiveness. It is conveyed in
no particular thing that he says or does, but i