“Here is your vollum, Mr. Lindsay,” the Deacon said.  “I understand it is not the work of that great and good mahn who I thought wrote it.  I did not see anything immoral in it as fur as I read, but it belongs to what I consider a very dangerous class of publications.  These novels and romances are awfully destructive to our youth.  I should recommend you, as a young man of principle, to burn the vollum.  At least I hope you will not leave it about anywhere unless it is carefully tied up.  I have written upon the paper round it to warn off all the young persons of my household from meddling with it.”

True enough, Mr. Clement saw in strong black letters on the back of the paper wrapping his unfortunate “Ivanhoe,”—­

      “Dangerousreading for Christian youth.

      “Touchnot the unclean thing.”

“I thought you said you had Scott’s picture hung up in your parlor, Deacon Rumrill,” he said, a little amused with the worthy man’s fear and precautions.

“It is the great Scott’s likeness that I have in my parlor,” he said; “I will show it to you if you will come with me.”

Mr. Clement followed the Deacon into that sacred apartment.

“That is the portrait of the great Scott,” he said, pointing to an engraving of a heavy-looking person whose phrenological developments were a somewhat striking contrast to those of the distinguished Sir Walter.

“I will take good care that none of your young people see this volume,” Mr. Clement said; “I trust you read it yourself, however, and found something to please you in it.  I am sure you are safe from being harmed by any such book.  Did n’t you have to finish it, Deacon, after you had once begun?”

“Well, I—­I—­perused a consid’able portion of the work,” the Deacon answered, in a way that led Mr. Clement to think he had not stopped much short of Finis.  “Anything new in the city?”

“Nothing except what you’ve all had,—­Confederate States establishing an army and all that,—­not very new either.  What has been going on here lately, Deacon?”—­

“Well, Mr. Lindsay, not a great deal.  My new barn is pretty nigh done.  I’ve got as fine a litter of pigs as ever you see.  I don’t know whether you’re a judge of pigs or no.  The Hazard gal’s come back, spilt, pooty much, I guess.  Been to one o’ them fashionable schools,—­I ’ve heerd that she ’s learnt to dance.  I’ve heerd say that that Hopkins boy’s round the Posey gal, come to think, she’s the one you went with some when you was here,—­I ‘m gettin’ kind o’ forgetful.  Old Doctor Hurlbut’s pretty low,—­ninety-four year old,—­born in ’67,—­folks ain’t ginerally very spry after they’re ninety, but he held out wonderful.”

“How’s Mr. Bradshaw?”

“Well, the young squire, he’s off travellin’ somewhere in the West, or to Washin’ton, or somewhere else,—­I don’t jestly know where.  They say that he’s follerin’ up the courts in the business about old Malachi’s estate.  I don’ know much about it.”