him some particulars of my visit in the
morning to the publisher, whom he had frequently heard of.

We left the house together.

"We shall soon see each other again," said he, as we separated at the
door of my lodging.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

On the Sunday I was punctual to my appointment to dine with the
publisher. As I hurried along the square in which his house stood, my
thoughts were fixed so intently on the great man that I passed by him
without seeing him. He had observed me, however, and joined me just as I
was about to knock at the door. "Let us take a turn in the square," said
he, "we shall not dine for half an hour."

"Well," said he, as we were walking in the square, "what have you been
doing since I last saw you?"

"I have been looking about London," said I, "and I have bought the
_Dairyman's Daughter_; here it is."

"Pray put it up," said the publisher; "I don't want to look at such
trash. Well, do you think you could write anything like it?"

"I do not," said I.

"How is that?" said the publisher, looking at me.

"Because," said I, "the man who wrote it seems to be perfectly well
acquainted with his subject; and, moreover, to write from the heart."

"By the subject you mean--"

"Religion."

"And a'n't you acquainted with religion?"

"Very little."

"I am sorry for that," said the publisher seriously, "for he who sets up
for an author ought to be acquainted not only with religion, but
religions, and indeed with all subjects, like my good friend in the
country. It is well that I have changed my mind about the _Dairyman's
Daughter_, or I really don't know whom I could apply to on the subject at
the present moment, unless to himself; and after all, I question whether
his style is exactly suited for an evangelical novel."

"Then you do not wish for an imitation of the _Dairyman's Daughter_?"

"I do not, sir; I have changed my mind, as I told you before; I wish to
employ you in another line, but will communicate to you my intentions
after dinner."

At dinner, besides the publisher and myself, were present his wife and
son, with his newly-married bride; the wife appeared a quiet, respectable
woman, and the young people looked very happy and good-natured; not so
the publisher, who occasionally eyed both with contempt and dislike.
Connected with this dinner there was one thing remarkable; the publisher
took no animal food, but contented himself with feeding voraciously on
rice and vege