r than the generation preceding it, especially in all that relates
to science; and, as he would say, "The study of life is a science, and
not an art."

But Cecilia,--what impression did she create upon the young visitor?
Was he alive to the charm of her rare beauty, to the grace of a mind
sufficiently stored for commune with those who love to think and to
imagine, and yet sufficiently feminine and playful to seize the sportive
side of realities, and allow their proper place to the trifles which
make the sum of human things? An impression she did make, and that
impression was new to him and pleasing. Nay, sometimes in her presence
and sometimes when alone, he fell into abstracted consultations with
himself, saying, "Kenelm Chillingly, now that thou hast got back into
thy proper skin, dost thou not think that thou hadst better remain
there? Couldst thou not be contented with thy lot as erring descendant
of Adam, if thou couldst win for thy mate so faultless a descendant of
Eve as now flits before thee?" But he could not abstract from himself
any satisfactory answer to the question he had addressed to himself.

Once he said abruptly to Travers, as, on their return from their
rambles, they caught a glimpse of Cecilia's light form bending over the
flower-beds on the lawn, "Do you admire Virgil?"

"To say truth I have not read Virgil since I was a boy; and, between you
and me, I then thought him rather monotonous."

"Perhaps because his verse is so smooth in its beauty?"

"Probably. When one is very young one's taste is faulty; and if a poet
is not faulty, we are apt to think he wants vivacity and fire."

"Thank you for your lucid explanation," answered Kenelm, adding musingly
to himself, "I am afraid I should yawn very often if I were married to a
Miss Virgil."

CHAPTER XVI.

THE house of Mr. Travers contained a considerable collection of family
portraits, few of them well painted, but the Squire was evidently proud
of such evidences of ancestry. They not only occupied a considerable
space on the walls of the reception rooms, but swarmed into the
principal sleeping-chambers, and smiled or frowned on the beholder from
dark passages and remote lobbies. One morning, Cecilia, on her way
to the china closet, found Kenelm gazing very intently upon a female
portrait consigned to one of those obscure receptacles by which through
a back staircase he gained the only approach from the hall to his
chamber.

"I don't prete