which time, I observe, that poor Lucy is unusually smart
and uncomfortable. We sit in the best room, and turn out the dogs;
my father-in-law smokes his pipe in the arbour, instead of the
drawing-room; and I receive sundry hints, all in vain, on the propriety
of dressing for dinner. In return for these attentions on our part, my
sister invariably brings my boy a present of a pair of white gloves, and
my wife a French ribbon of the newest pattern; in the evening, instead
of my reading Shakspeare, she tells us anecdotes of high life, and,
when she goes away, she gives us, in return for our hospitality, a very
general and very gingerly invitation to her house. Lucy sometimes talks
to me about accepting it; but I turn a deaf ear to all such overtures,
and so we continue much better friends than we should be if we saw more
of each other."

"And how long has your father-in-law been with you?"

"Ever since we have been here. He gave up his farm, and cultivates mine
for me; for I know nothing of those agricultural matters. I made his
coming a little surprise, in order to please Lucy: you should have
witnessed their meeting."

"I think I have now learned all particulars," said Clarence; "it only
remains for me to congratulate you: but are you, in truth, never tired
of the monotony and sameness of domestic life?"

"Yes! and then I do, as I have just done, saddle Little John, and go
on an excursion of three or four days, or even weeks, just as the whim
seizes me; for I never return till I am driven back by the yearning for
home, and the feeling that after all one's wanderings there is no place
like it. Whether in private life or public, sir, in parting with a
little of one's liberty one gets a great deal of comfort in exchange."

"I thank you truly for your frankness," said Clarence; "it has solved
many doubts with respect to you that have often occurred to me. And now
we are in the main road, and I must bid you farewell: we part, but our
paths lead to the same object; you return to happiness, and I seek it."

"May you find it, and I not lose it, sir," said the wanderer reclaimed;
and, shaking hands, the pair parted.

CHAPTER LXVI.

Quicquid agit Rufus, nihil est, nisi Naevia Rufo,
Si gaudet, si flet, si tacet, hanc loquitur;
Coenat, propinat, poscit, negat, annuit, una est Naevia;
si non sit Naevia, mutus erit.
Scriberet hesterna patri cum luce salutem
Naevia lux, inquit, Naevia numen, ave.--MART.