Mr. Bradshaw expected naturally to see a youth of imperfect constitution, and cachectic or dyspeptic tendencies, who was in training to furnish one of those biographies beginning with the statement that, from his infancy, the subject of it showed no inclination for boyish amusements, and so on, until he dies out, for the simple reason that there was not enough of him to live.  Very interesting, no doubt, Master Byles Gridley would have said, but had no more to do with good, hearty, sound life than the history of those very little people to be seen in museums preserved in jars of alcohol, like brandy peaches.

When Mr. Clement Lindsay presented himself, Mr. Bradshaw was a good deal surprised to see a young fellow of such a mould.  He pleased himself with the idea that he knew a man of mark at sight, and he set down Clement in that category at his first glance.  The young man met his penetrating and questioning look with a frank, ingenuous, open aspect, before which he felt himself disarmed, as it were, and thrown upon other means of analysis.  He would try him a little in talk.

“I hope you like these people you are with.  What sort of a man do you find my old friend the Deacon?”

Clement laughed.  “A very queer old character.  Loves his joke as well, and is as sly in making it, as if he had studied Joe Miller instead of the Catechism.”

Mr. Bradshaw looked at the young man to know what he meant.  Mr. Lindsay talked in a very easy way for a serious young person.  He was puzzled.  He did not see to the bottom of this description of the Deacon.  With a lawyer’s instinct, he kept his doubts to himself and tried his witness with a new question.

“Did you talk about books at all with the old man?”

“To be sure I did.  Would you believe it,—­that aged saint is a great novel-reader.  So he tells me.  What is more, he brings up his children to that sort of reading, from the time when they first begin to spell.  If anybody else had told me such a story about an old country deacon, I wouldn’t have believed it; but he said so himself, to me, at breakfast this morning.”

Mr. Bradshaw felt as if either he or Mr. Lindsay must certainly be in the first stage of mild insanity, and he did not think that he himself could be out of his wits.  He must try one more question.  He had become so mystified that he forgot himself, and began putting his interrogation in legal form.

“Will you state, if you please—­I beg your pardon—­may I ask who is your own favorite author?”

“I think just now I like to read Scott better than almost anybody.”

“Do you mean the Rev. Thomas Scott, author of the Commentary?”

Clement stared at Mr. Bradshaw, and wondered whether he was trying to make a fool of him.  The young lawyer hardly looked as if he could be a fool himself.

“I mean Sir Walter Scott,” he said, dryly.

“Oh!” said Mr. Bradshaw.  He saw that there had been a slight misunderstanding between the young man and his worthy host, but it was none of his business, and there were other subjects of interest to talk about.