imaginary curb, and unclenching the teeth from their bite upon the word "inexorable," she sighed reflectively.
"The combination is rare," commenced the gentleman.
"It is preposterous!" ejaculated the doctor, closing the purple album with a concussion like the report of a pocket pistol.
"I think not, dear," said the wife, gently corrective. "It is, as Mr. Wyllys says, a rare combination, but certainly not an impossible one."
"Preposterous," reiterated the doctor, drawing out his handkerchief—"that a rational creature, who can read and write, should waste time in disfiguring good, honest paper with such incongruous, not to say blasphemous, nonsense as I find here. It was bad enough for mediæval monks to deck the Word of Life in the motley wear of a harlequin. Greek, German, black-letter text are, all of them, stumbling-blocks to the unlearned, diversions to the thoughtless. But when the sacred Scriptures are bedizened into further illegibility by paint and gilding, and illustrated by birds, beasts, flowers, and even fishes, daubed upon fields azure, argent, and verde, the offence becomes an abomination. Such profanation is offered that divinest of pastorals, the Twenty-third Psalm in this volume," elevating it in strong disgust.
Mrs. Baxter arose and took it from his hand.
"Tastes differ, my dear husband," was all she said; but her forbearance and real sweetness of temper called forth a look of unfeigned respect from the amused visitor.
"I wouldn't keep it in the parlor, if I were you, Jane," the doctor expostulated, seeing her deposit the folio upon a stand beyond his reach.
"I won't ask you to look at it again, love," still amiably.
She returned to the subject, when he had helped himself to another volume more to his taste.
"I saw few things when I was abroad, before my marriage, that interested me more than the illuminated missals and breviaries preserved in convents and museums," she said to her guest. I am the possessor of a remarkably fine specimen of the illuminator's art—the gift of a dear friend and relative, now no more. I had not looked into it for years until after I commenced my humble album—which, allow me to observe, my excellent husband does not guess is my handiwork. To return," the hands described an inward curve, and subsided into an embrace upon her knee—"the best touches in my work were after my precious reliquary. I must show it to you."
Orrin followed her to an escritoire at the back of the room, peeping covertly at his watch as he went. Mrs. Baxter put her hand to her bust and choked down some rebellious up-rising of memory or regret as she unlocked a drawer.
"This is it," mournfully, taking out a thin volume bound in gilded leather and carved boards.
Orrin examined it in pleased surprise. He had expected to see an absurdity; he beheld a gem of its kind—a collection of Latin hymns, including the Stabat Mater, Dies Iræ, and Veni Creator Spiritus, each page encircled by a border of appropriate design, and delicate, yet rich, coloring.
"It was executed for me, by an adept in the art, then resident at Florence. I forget his name, but you will find it concealed in some one of the convolutions of the title-page," remarked the lady.
The fly-leaf adhered slightly to the page designated, and Orrin read the inscription upon the former, before detaching them.
