by the way, Deacon, I have no use for this book, and as it is in a
good type, perhaps you would like it. Your favorite, Scott, and one of
his greatest works. I have another edition of it at home, and don't care
for this volume."

"Thank you, thank you, Mr. Lindsay, much obleeged. I shall read that
copy for your sake,--the best of books next to the Bible itself."

After Mr. Lindsay had gone, the Deacon looked at the back of the book.
"Scott's Works, Vol. IX." He opened it at hazard, and happened to fall
on a well-known page, from which he began reading aloud, slowly,

"When Izrul, of the Lord beloved,
Out of the land of bondage came."

The whole hymn pleased the grave Deacon. He had never seen this work of
the author of the Commentary. No matter; anything that such a good man
wrote must be good reading, and he would save it up for Sunday. The
consequence of this was, that, when the Rev. Mr. Stoker stopped in on
his way to meeting on the "Sabbath," he turned white with horror at the
spectacle of the senior Deacon of his church sitting, open-mouthed and
wide-eyed, absorbed in the pages of "Ivanhoe," which he found enormously
interesting; but, so far as he had yet read, not occupied with religious
matters so much as he had expected.

Myrtle had no explanation to give of her nervous attack. Mr. Bradshaw
called the day after the party, but did not see her. He met her walking,
and thought she seemed a little more distant than common. That would
never do. He called again at The Poplars a few days afterwards, and was
met in the entry by Miss Cynthia, with whom he had a long conversation
on matters involving Myrtle's interests and their own.

A PASSAGE FROM HAWTHORNE'S ENGLISH NOTEBOOKS.

Our road to Rydal lay through Ambleside, which is certainly a very
pretty town, and looks cheerfully on a sunny day. We saw Miss
Martineau's residence, called the Knoll, standing high up on a hillock,
and having at its foot a Methodist chapel, for which, or whatever place
of Christian worship, this good lady can have no occasion. We stopped a
moment in the street below her house, and deliberated a little whether
to call on her, but concluded otherwise.

After leaving Ambleside, the road winds in and out among the hills, and
soon brings us to a sheet (or napkin, rather, than a sheet) of water,
which the driver tells us is Rydal Lake! We had already heard that it
was but three quarters of a mile long, and one quarter broad