r,--see! balancing himself between
those weeds."

OXONIAN.--"Poor fellow, let him be safe to-day. After all, it is a cruel
sport, and I should break myself of it. But it is strange that whatever
our love for Nature we always seek some excuse for trusting ourselves
alone to her. A gun, a rod, a sketch-book, a geologist's hammer, an
entomologist's net, a something."

WAIFE.--"Is it not because all our ideas would run wild if not
concentrated on a definite pursuit? Fortune and Nature are earnest
females, though popular beauties; and they do not look upon coquettish
triflers in the light of genuine wooers."

The Oxonian, who, in venting his previous remark, had thought it likely
he should be above his listener's comprehension, looked surprised. What
pursuits, too, had this one-eyed philosopher?

"You have a definite pursuit, sir?"

"I--alas! when a man moralizes, it is a sign that he has known error:
it is because I have been a trifler that I rail against triflers. And
talking of that, time flies, and we must be off and away."

Sophy re-tied the bundle. Sir Isaac, on whom, meanwhile, she had
bestowed the remains of the chicken, jumped up and described a circle.

"I wish you success in your pursuit, whatever it be," stuttered out the
angler.

"And I no less heartily, sir, wish you success in yours."

"Mine! Success there is beyond my power."

"How, sir? Does it rest so much with others?"

"No, my failure is in myself. My career should be the Church, my pursuit
the cure of souls, and--and--this pitiful infirmity! How can I speak the
Divine Word--I--I--a stutterer!"

The young man did not pause for an answer, but plunged through the
brushwood that bespread the banks of the rill, and his hurried path
could be traced by the wave of the foliage through which he forced his
way.

"We all have our burdens," said Gentleman Waife, as Sir Isaac took up
the bundle and stalked on, placid and refreshed.

CHAPTER IX.

The nomad, entering into civilized life, adopts its arts, shaves his
poodle, and puts on a black coat.--Hints at the process by which a
Cast-off exalts himself into a Take-in.

At twilight they stopped at a quiet inn within eight miles of
Gatesboro'. Sophy, much tired, was glad to creep to bed. Waife sat up
long after her; and, in preparation for the eventful morrow, washed
and shaved Sir Isaac. You would not have known the dog again; he was
dazzling. Not Ulysses, rejuvenated by Pallas Athe