of life I don't think there is much, to get
over." ,

" Your time of life, Jack! What
nonsense."

"Well, I am not a patriarch, certainly,"
said Mr. John Ackland. "But I don't
want to be a patriarch, Tom: and I don't
think I ever shall be a patriarch. The
best part of my life was short enough,
Heaven knows, and I hope (now that is
over) that the worst part of it won't be
very long. I don't think it will be very
long, Tom. Anyhow, I have no mind to
meet Mr. and Mrs. Mordent again just
now, so I shall accept Cartwright's invitation,
and now, for mercy's sake, no more
about business for to-day, Tom."

He did accept the invitation: and, at
the date proposed, John Ackland arrived
at Richmond late in the evening of a hot
June day. He was much fatigued by his
long journey and the heat of the weather;
and not at all sorry to accept an invitation
(which he received through Cartwright,
who met him on his arrival) from Mr. D.,
the accomplished editor of the Richmond
Courier, to sup and sleep at that gentleman's
house before going on to Glenoak.
Mr. D. having heard from Cartwright of
Mr. Ackland's intended visit to the south,
and knowing that he could not arrive in
Richmond till late in the evening, had,
with true Virginian hospitality, insisted on
the two gentlemen passing the night at
his house in town; and it had been
arranged that Cartwright should drive Mr.
D. and Mr. Ackland over to Glenoak on
the following day. Mr. Ackland was very
cordially received by his Richmond host,
an agreeable and cultivated man. The
fatigue of his long journey secured him a
good night's rest; and, being an early riser,
he had indulged his curiosity by a solitary
stroll through the town, before the three
gentlemen met at breakfast the next morning.
After breakfast, he was conducted
by his two friends to see the lions of the
place. When they had visited the court-
house and the senate-house,

"Now, Mr. Editor," said Cartwright,
"I shall ask permission to leave my friend
here under your good care for an hour or
so. I am going to fetch my little girl
from school. You know she is at Miss
Grindley's finishing establishment for young
ladies; and though she is only ten years
old, Miss G. assures me that Virginia
Cartwright is her most forward pupil. We
will take this little puss with us, if you
please. What o'clock is it now?"

Cartwright looked at his watch, and Mr.
D. looked at his watch. Yawning and
looking at your watch are infectious
gestures. John Ackland also put his hand to
his waistcoat-pocket, and then suddenly
remembering that his watch was not there,
he felt awkward, and blushed. John Ackland
was a shy man, and a lazy man in
everything but the exercise of self-torment.
He was in the habit of interpreting every
trifle to his own disadvantage. This
unfortunate way of regarding all external
phenomena was constantly disturbing his
otherwise habitual languor with an internal
sensation of extreme awkwardness. And
whenever John Ackland felt awkward he
blushed.

"Twenty minutes to one," said Mr. D.

"Good; then," said Cartwright, "in one
hour, as near as may be, I and my little
girl will be at your door with the waggon,
and phaeton. Can you be ready by then?"

"All right," answered the editor, "we
shall just have time for a light luncheon."

"Will it be out of your way, Mr. D.,"
said Ackland, after Cartwright had left
them, " to pass by D'Oiley's, the watch-
maker's, in——street?"

"Not at all. How do you happen to
know the name of that store, though?"

"I noticed it, whilst strolling through
the town this morning. My chronometer
has been losing time since I came south;
and I asked Mr. D'Oiley to look at it,
saying I would call or send for it before
leaving town this afternoon."

When the watchmaker handed back the
chronometer to Mr. Ackland, " That watch
was never made in the States, I reckon,
sir?" said he.

"No. It is English."

"Geneva works, though. I'll warrant
your chronometer, sir, to go right for six
years now. Splendid piece of workmanship,
sir."

Mr. Ackland was much pleased with his
pretty little new acquaintance, Virginia
Cartwright. She was a dark-eyed lively
child, who promised to become a very
beautiful woman, and was singularly graceful
for that awkward age in the life of a
young lady which closes her first decade.
Her father seemed to be immensely proud
of, as well as tenderly attached to, the little
girl. Every little incident on their way to
Glenoak suggested to him some anecdote
of her childhood which he related to his
guest in terms, no doubt inadequately
expressive of her extraordinary merits. Once
he said, "Good God, sir, when I think