a little glen away from the fall. Everybody must have observed that
after he has incurred or escaped a great danger, his spirits rise
wonderfully; he is in a state of pleasing excitement. So it was with
me. I talked to the gardener a coeur ouvert, as the French say; and I
did not observe that his short monosyllables in rejoinder all served to
draw out my little history,--my journey, its destination, my schooling
under Dr. Herman, and my father's Great Book. I was only made somewhat
suddenly aware of the familiarity that had sprung up between us when,
just as, having performed a circuitous meander, we regained the stream
and stood before an iron gate set in an arch of rock-work, my companion
said simply: "And your name, young gentleman? What's your name?"

I hesitated a moment; but having heard that such communications were
usually made by the visitors of show places, I answered: "Oh! a very
venerable one, if your master is what they call a bibliomaniac--Caxton."

"Caxton!" cried the gardener, with some vivacity; "there is a Cumberland
family of that name--"

"That's mine; and my Uncle Roland is the head of that family."

"And you are the son of Augustine Caxton?"

"I am. You have heard of my dear father, then?"

"We will not pass by the gate now. Follow me,--this way;" and my guide,
turning abruptly round, strode up a narrow path, and the house stood a
hundred yards before me ere I recovered my surprise.

"Pardon me," said I, "but where are we going, my good friend?"