little old women; and not one of the little men appeared to be less than
a hundred and five years old. They suggested a collection of Shems and
Japhets, with their wives, taken from a lot of toy Noah's arks. As the
carriage rolled between the two files, all the funny little women bobbed
a simultaneous courtesy, and all the little old-fashioned men lifted
their hats with the most irresistible gravity conceivable. "Fancy such a
thing happening in the United States!" said Lynde. "If we were to meet
such a crowd at home, half a dozen urchins would immediately fasten
themselves to the hind axle, and some of the more playful spirits would
probably favor us with a stone or two, or a snowball, according to the
season."

"There comes the curee, now," said Miss Denham. "It is some Sunday-
school fete."

As the curee, a florid, stout person, made an obeisance and passed on,
fanning himself leisurely with his shovel-hat, his simple round face and
white feathery hair put Lynde in mind of the hapless old gentleman whom
he mistook for the country parson that morning so long ago. Instantly
the whole scene rose before Lynde's vision. Perhaps the character of the
landscape through which they were passing helped to make the
recollection very vivid. There was not a cloud in the pale arch; yonder
were the far-reaching peaks with patches of snow on them, and there
stretched the same rugged, forlorn hills, covered with dwarf bushes and
sentinelled with phantom-like pines. An odd expression drifted across
Lynde's countenance.

"What are you smiling at, Mr. Lynde, in that supremely selfish manner?"
inquired Mrs. Denham, looking at him from under her tilted sun-umbrella.