in a burst of passion. The old man looked surprised. He gazed with
a serious anxiety into the youth's face, and then addressed him:--

"Where have you been, William, for the last three weeks? In all
that time I have not seen you."

A warm blush suffused the cheeks of the pupil. He did not immediately
answer.

"Ask ME!" exclaimed a voice from behind them, which they both
instantly recognised as that of Ned Hinkley, the cousin of William.
He had approached them, in the earnestness of their interview,
without having disturbed them. The bold youth was habited in a
rough woodman's dress. He wore a round jacket of homespun, and in
his hand he carried a couple of fishing-rods, which, with certain
other implements, betiayed sufficiently the object of his present
pursuit.

"Ask me!" said he. "I can tell you what he's been about better than
anybody else."

"Well, Ned," said the old man, "what has it been? I am afraid it
is your fiddle that keeps him from his Blackstone."

"My fiddle, indeed! If he would listen to my fiddle when she speaks
out, he'd be wiser and better for it. Look at him, Mr. Calvert, and
say whether it's book or fiddle that's likely to make him as lean
as a March pickerel in the short space of three months. Only look
at him, I say."