cleverly than I expected to stifle those innumerable tacit illusions which might serve effectually to belie my character.
Sunday, July 20th.—This has been a very pleasant day for me; although in it, of course, I have done no manner of work. I had this morning a delightful tête-à-tête with my hostess. She had sprained her ankle, coming downstairs; and so, instead of going forth to Sunday school and to meeting, she was obliged to remain at home on the sofa. The Captain, who is of a very punctilious piety, went off alone. When I came into the parlor, as the churchbells were ringing, Miss Blunt asked me if I never went to meeting. "Never when there is anything better to do at home," said I.
"What is better than going to church?" she asked, with charming simplicity.
She was reclining on the sofa, with her foot on a pillow, and her Bible in her lap. She looked by no means afflicted at having to be absent from divine service; and, instead of answering her question, I took the liberty of telling her so.
"I am sorry to be absent," said she. "You know it's my only festival in the week."
"So you look upon it as a festival," said I.
"Isn't it a pleasure to meet one's acquaintance? I confess I am never deeply interested in the ser-
