re copious quotations than usual. This,
however, was not the case; so far from that, he never displayed less
pedantry, nor interspersed his conversation with fewer scraps of Latin.
In fact, the proceedings of the day appeared to affect him with a tone
of thought, decidedly at variance with the exuberance of joy experienced
by the family. He was silent, moody, and evidently drawn by some secret
reflection from the scene around him. He held a book in his hand, into
which he looked from time to time, with the air of a man who balances
some contingency in his mind. At length, when the conversation of
those who were assembled became more loud and boisterous, he watched
an opportunity of gliding out unperceived; having accomplished this, he
looked cautiously about him, and finding himself not observed, he turned
his steps to a glen which lay about half a mile below his father's
house.

At the lowest skirt of this little valley, protected, by a few spreading
hawthorns, stood a small white farm-house, more immediately shaded by a
close row of elder or boor-tree, which hung over one of the gables,
and covered the garden gate, together with a neat grassy seat, that
was built between the gate, and the gable. It was impervious to sun
and rain: one of those pretty spots which present themselves on the
road-side in the country, and strike the eye with a pleasing notion of
comfort; especially when, during a summer shower, the cocks and hens of
the little yard are seen by the traveller who takes shelter under it,
huddled up in silence, the white dust quite dry, whilst the heavy shower
patters upon the leaves above, and upon the dark drenched road beside
him.

Under the shade of this sat an interesting girl, aged about seventeen,
named Susan Connor. She was slender, and not above the middle size;
but certainly, in point of form and feature, such as might be called
beautiful--handsome she unquestionably was; but be that as it may, with
this rustic beauty the object of Denis's stolen visit was connected. She
sat knitting under the shade of elder which we have described, a sweet
picture of innocence and candor. Our hero's face, as he approached her,
was certainly a fine study for any one who wished to embody the sad and
the ludicrous. Desperate was the conflict between pedantry and feeling
which he experienced. His manner appeared more pompous and affected than
ever; yet was there blended with the flush of approaching triumph as
a candid