achinery; and in the mean time he really liked the
repose of the country, and appreciated the varying charms of landscape
and atmosphere with a fervour unfelt by the man who had been born and
reared amidst those pastoral scenes.

The two men smoked their cigars together in a quietly companionable
spirit, strolling about the gardens and farm, dropping out a sentence now
and then, and anon falling into a lazy reverie, each pondering upon his
own affairs--Gilbert meditating transactions with foreign houses, risky
bargains with traders of doubtful solvency, or hazardous investments in
stocks, as the case might be; the gentleman farmer ruminating upon the
chances of a good harvest, or the probable value of his Scotch
short-horns.

Mr. Lister had preferred lounging about the farm with a cigar in his
mouth to attendance at church upon this particular Sunday evening. He had
finished his customary round of inspection by this time, and was sitting
by one of the open windows of the drawing-room, with his body in one
luxurious chair, and his legs extended upon another, deep in the study of
the _Gardener's Chronicle_, which he flung aside upon the appearance
of his family.

"Well, Toddlekins," he cried to the little girl, "I hope you were very
attentive to the sermon; listened for two, and made up for your lazy dad.
That's a vicarious kind of devotion that ought to be permitted
occasionally to a hard-working fellow like me.--I'm glad you've come back
to give us some tea, Belle. Don't go upstairs; let Susan carry up your
bonnet and shawl. It's nearly nine o'clock. Toddlekins wants her tea
before she goes to bed."

"Lucy has had her tea in the nursery," said Mrs. Lister, as she took her
seat before the cups and saucers.

"But she will have some more with papa," replied Martin, who had an
amiable knack of spoiling his children. There were only two--this bright
fair-haired Lucy, aged nine, and a sturdy boy of seven.

They sipped their tea, and talked a little about who had been at church
and who had not been, and the room was filled with that atmosphere of
dulness which seems to prevail in such households upon a summer Sunday
evening; a kind of palpable emptiness which sets a man speculating how
many years he may have to live, and how many such Sundays he may have to
spend. He is apt to end by wondering a little whether life is really
worth the trouble it costs, when almost the best thing that can come of
it is a condition of com