When we saw a handsome young clergyman across the promenade-deck looking
up from his guide-book toward us, now and again, as if in default of
knowing any one else he would be very willing to know us, we decided
that I must make his acquaintance. He was instantly and cordially
responsive to my question whether he had ever made the trip before, and
he was amiably grateful when in my quality of old habitué of the route I
pointed out some characteristic features of the scenery. I showed him
just where we were on the long map of the river hanging over his knee,
and I added, with no great relevancy, that my wife and I were renewing
the fond emotion of our first trip down the St. Lawrence in the
character of bridal pair which we had spurned when it was really ours. I
explained that we had left the children with my wife's aunt, so as to
render the travesty more lifelike; and when he said, "I suppose you miss
them, though," I gave him my card. He tried to find one of his own to
give me in return, but he could only find a lot of other people's cards.
He wrote his name on the back of one, and handed it to me with a smile.
"It won't do for me to put 'reverend' before it, in my own chirography,
but that's the way I have it engraved."

"Oh," I said, "the cut of your coat bewrayed you," and we had some
laughing talk. But I felt the eye of Mrs. March dwelling upon me with
growing impatience, till I suggested, "I should like to make you
acquainted with my wife, Mr. Glendenning."

He said, Oh, he should be so happy; and he gathered his dangling map
into the book and came over with me to where Mrs. March sat; and, like
the good young American husband I was in those days, I stood aside and
left the whole talk to her. She interested him so much more than I could
that I presently wandered away and amused myself elsewhere. When I came
back, she clutched my arm and bade me not speak a word; it was the most