Of the many beautiful things to see in the neighborhood of Quebec, our wedding-journeyers were in doubt on which to bestow their one precious afternoon.  Should it be Lorette, with its cataract and its remnant of bleached and fading Hurons, or the Isle of Orleans with its fertile farms and its primitive peasant life, or Montmorenci, with the unrivaled fall and the long drive through the beautiful village of Beauport?  Isabel chose the last, because Basil had been there before, and it had to it the poetry of the wasted years in which she did not know him.  She had possessed herself of the journal of his early travels, among the other portions and parcels recoverable from the dreadful past, and from time to time on this journey she had read him passages out of it, with mingled sentiment and irony, and, whether she was mocking or admiring, equally to his confusion.  Now, as they smoothly bowled away from the city, she made him listen to what he had written of the same excursion long ago.

It was, to be sure, a sad farrago of sentiment about the village and the rural sights, and especially a girl tossing hay in the field.  Yet it had touches of nature and reality, and Basil could not utterly despise himself for having written it.  “Yes,” he said, “life was then a thing to be put into pretty periods; now it’s something that has risks and averages, and may be insured.”

There was regret, fancied or expressed, in his tone, that made her sigh, “Ah! if I’d only had a little more money, you might have devoted yourself to literature;” for she was a true Bostonian in her honor of our poor craft.

“O, you’re not greatly to blame,” answered her husband, “and I forgive you the little wrong you’ve done me.  I was quits with the Muse, at any rate, you know, before we were married; and I’m very well satisfied to be going back to my applications and policies to-morrow.”

To-morrow?  The word struck cold upon her.  Then their wedding journey would begin to end tomorrow!  So it would, she owned with another sigh; and yet it seemed impossible.

“There, ma’am,” said the driver, rising from his seat and facing round, while he pointed with his whip towards Quebec, “that’s what we call the Silver City.”

They looked back with him at the city, whose thousands of tinned roofs, rising one above the other from the water’s edge to the citadel, were all a splendor of argent light in the afternoon sun.  It was indeed as if some magic had clothed that huge rock, base and steepy flank and crest, with a silver city.  They gazed upon the marvel with cries of joy that satisfied the driver’s utmost pride in it, and Isabel said, “To live there, there in that Silver City, in perpetual sojourn!  To be always going to go on a morrow that never came!  To be forever within one day of the end of a wedding journey that never ended!”

From far down the river by which they rode came the sound of a cannon, breaking the Sabbath repose of the air.  “That’s the gun of the Liverpool steamer, just coming in,” said the driver.