hile the room fills with the fragrance of
southern grapes. The gay old silver-top!"

There was silence for a few minutes after Armstrong had finished his
declaration. It was broken by Berkeley, who had risen, and was walking
up and down in front of the fountain with his hands thrust into his
pockets.

"You couldn't lead that sort of life if you tried," he said; "you
aren't built for it."

"Don't you make any mistake," rejoined the other; "it's the sort of
life I'm going to live."

"It's a cowardly life," retorted Berkeley.

"Did I say it wasn't? I said it was safe. You can call it what you
like."

"Well," replied Berkeley, seating himself again, "my ideal career is
just the opposite of that."

"Suppose you explain yours, then," said Armstrong.

Berkeley hesitated a few moments before beginning. He was a lean,
tallish fellow, with a Scotch cast of countenance, a small blue eye,
high cheek bones, a freckled skin, and whity-brown hair. He had a dry,
cautious humor, fed by much out-of-the-way reading. He had been
distinguished in college by methodical habits, a want of ambition, a
disposition to keep to himself, and a mixture of selfishness and
_bonhomie_ which made him a cold friend but an agreeable companion.
It was therefore with some surprise that we heard him deliver himself
as follows:

"I believe that the greatest mistake a man can make is in not getting
enough out of life. I want to lead a full life, to have a wide
experience, to develop my whole nature to the utmost, to touch mankind
at the largest possible number of points. I want adventure, change,
excitement, emotion, suffering even,--I don't care what, so long as it
is not stagnation. Just consider what there is on this planet to be
seen, learned, enjoyed, and what a miserably small share of it most
people appropriate. Why, there are men in my village who have never
been outside the county and seldom out of the township; who have never
heard a word of any language but English; never seen a city or a
mountain or the ocean--or, indeed, any body of water bigger than Fresh
Pond or the Hogganum River; never been in a theatre, steamboat,
library, or cathedral. Cathedral! Their conception of a church is
limited to the white wooden meeting-house at 'the center.' Their
art-gallery is the wagon of a travelling photographer. Their
metropolitan hotel is the stoop and bar-room of the 'Uncas House.'
Their university is the unpainted school-house on the hill. The