any Anthony between. And then we disembarked and posted
ourselves on the coach-top for a six-mile ride to Champlain;
and Grande said, her face still buried in the map, "Here on the
left is 'Trout Brook' running into the lake, and a cross on it,
and 'Lt. Howe fell, 1758.' That is worth seeing."

"Yes," I said, "America loved his brother."

"America loved HIM," howled Halicarnassus, thinking to correct
me and avenge himself. Now I knew quite well that America
loved him, and did not love his brother, but with the mention
of his name came into my mind the tender, grieved surprise of
that pathetic little appeal, and I just said thought it aloud,--
assuming historic knowledge enough in my listeners to prevent
misconception. But to this day Halicarnassus persists in
thinking or at least in asserting, that I tripped over Lord
Howe. As he does not often get such a chance, I let him
comfort himself with it as much as he can; but that is the way
with your whippersnapper critics. They put on their "specs,"
and pounce down upon some microscopic mote, which they think
to be ignorance, but which is really the diamond-dust of
imagination. "But let us see the place," said Grande. "We
must drive within sight of it."

"Yes," I said. "Halicarnassus, ask the driver to he sure to
tell us where Lord Howe fell."

"Fell into the brook," said that Oracle, and sat as stiff as
a post.