be interposing what they
would consider a last chance of averting what to them was so dismal a
calamity.

To Oxford, then, he directed his course; and, having some accidental
business at Bath, he stopped there for the night, intending to continue
his journey next morning. Among other jobs, he had to get a "Garden of
the Soul," and two or three similar books which might help him in the
great preparation which awaited his arrival in London. He went into a
religious publisher's in Danvers Street with that object, and while
engaged in a back part of the shop in looking over a pile of Catholic
works, which, to the religious public, had inferior attractions to the
glittering volumes, Evangelical and Anglo-Catholic, which had possession
of the windows and principal table, he heard the shop-door open, and, on
looking round, saw a familiar face. It was that of a young clergyman,
with a very pretty girl on his arm, whom her dress pronounced to be a
bride. Love was in their eyes, joy in their voice, and affluence in
their gait and bearing. Charles had a faintish feeling come over him;
somewhat such as might beset a man on hearing a call for pork-chops when
he was sea-sick. He retreated behind a pile of ledgers and other
stationery, but they could not save him from the low, dulcet tones which
from time to time passed from one to the other.

"Have you got some of the last Oxford reprints of standard works?" said
the bridegroom to the shopman.

"Yes, sir; but which set did you mean? 'Selections from Old Divines,'
or, 'New Catholic Adaptations'?"

"Oh, not the Adaptations," answered he, "they are extremely dangerous; I
mean real Church-of-England divinity--Bull, Patrick, Hooker, and the
rest of them."

The shopman went to look them out.

"I think it was those Adaptations, dearest," said the lady, "that the
Bishop warned us against."

"Not the Bishop, Louisa; it was his daughter."

"Oh, Miss Primrose, so it was," said she; "and there was one book she
recommended, what was it?"

"Not a book, it was a speech," said White; "Mr. O'Ballaway's at Exeter
Hall; but I think we should not quite like it."

"No, no, Henry, it _was_ a book, dear; I can't recall the name."

"You mean Dr. Crow's 'New Refutation of Popery,' perhaps; but the
_Bishop_ recommended _that_."

The shopman returned. "Oh, what a sweet face!" she said, looking at the
frontispiece of a little book she got hold of; "do look, Henry; whom
does it put you in mind o