forest. Although it was neither Sunday nor a fete-day, there were
pleasure parties gipseying under trees--Parisian cockneys riding
raw-boned steeds--pony-chaises full of laughing grisettes dashing up and
down the broad roads that pierce the wood in various directions--old
women selling cakes and lemonade--workmen gambling with half-pence on
the smooth turf by the wayside--_bonnes_, comely and important, with
their little charges playing round them, and their busy fingers plying
the knitting-needles as they walked--young ladies sketching trees, and
prudent governesses reading novels close by; in short, all the life and
variety of a favorite suburban resort on an ordinarily fine day about
the beginning of autumn.

Leaving the frequented routes to the right, we turned into one of the
many hundred tracks that diverge in every direction from the beaten
roads, and wandered deeper and deeper into the green shades and
solitudes of the forest. Pausing, presently, to rest, Dalrymple threw
himself at full length on the mossy ground, with his hands clasping the
back of his head, and his hat over his eyes; whilst I found a luxurious
arm-chair in the gnarled roots of a lichen-tufted elm. Thus we remained
for a considerable time puffing away at our cigars in that sociable
silence which may almost claim to be an unique privilege of masculine
friendship. Women cannot sit together for long without talking; men can
enjoy each other's companionship for hours with scarcely the interchange
of an idea.

Meanwhile, I watched the squirrels up in the beech-trees and the dancing
of the green leaves against the sky; and thought dreamily of home, of my
father, of the far past, and the possible future. I asked myself how,
when my term of study came to an end, I should ever again endure the old
home-life at Saxonholme? How settle down for life as my father's
partner, conforming myself to his prejudices, obeying all the demands of
his imperious temper, and accepting for evermore the monotonous routine
of a provincial practice! It was an intolerable prospect, but no less
inevitable than intolerable. Pondering thus, I sighed heavily, and the
sigh roused Dalrymple's attention.

"Why, Damon," said he, turning over on his elbow, and pushing up his
hat to the level of his eyes, "what's the matter with you?"

"Oh, nothing--at least, nothing new."

"Well, new or old, what is it? A man must be either in debt, or in love,
when he sighs in that way. You lo