ld do anything, it really seemed, from shoeing a mule to
conducting a camp-meeting; he was a capital chemist, a very sound
surgeon, a fair judge of horseflesh, a first class euchre player,
and a pleasing baritone. When occasion demanded he could occupy a
pulpit. He had invented a cork-screw which brought him in a small
revenue; and he was now engaged in the translation of a Polish work
on the "Application of Hydrocyanic Acid to the Cure of Leprosy."

Still, we reached New York without having got any nearer our goal,
as regarded Dr. Quackenboss. He came to bid us good-bye at the quay,
with that sphinx-like smile still playing upon his features. Charles
clutched the dispatch-box with one hand, and Mrs. Quackenboss's
little palm with the other.

"_Don't_ tell us," he said, "this is good-bye--for ever!" And his
voice quite faltered.

"I guess so, Mr. Porter," the pretty American replied, with a
telling glance. "What hotel do you patronise?"

"The Murray Hill," Charles responded.

"Oh my, ain't that odd?" Mrs. Quackenboss echoed. "The Murray Hill!
Why, that's just where we're going too, Elihu!"

The upshot of which was that Charles persuaded them, before
returning to Kentucky, to diverge for a few days with us to Lake
George and Lake Champlain, where he hoped to over-persuade the
recalcitrant doctor.

To Lake George therefore we went, and stopped at the excellent hotel
at the terminus of the railway. We spent a good deal of our time on
the light little steamers that ply between that point and the road
to Ticonderoga. Somehow, the mountains mirrored in the deep green
water reminded me of Lucerne; and Lucerne reminded me of the little
curate. For the first time since we left England a vague terror
seized me. _Could_ Elihu Quackenboss be Colonel Clay again, still
dogging our steps through the opposite continent?

I could not help mentioning my suspicion to Charles--who, strange
to say, pooh-poohed it. He had been paying great court to Mrs.
Quackenboss that day, and was absurdly elated because the little
American had rapped his knuckles with her fan and called him "a
real silly."

Next day, however, an odd thing occurred. We strolled out together,
all four of us, along the banks of the lake, among woods just
carpeted with strange, triangular flowers--trilliums, Mrs.
Quackenboss called them--and lined with delicate ferns in the
first green of springtide.

I began to grow poetical. (I wrote verses in my youth before