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On the next morning Doctor Courtlandt descended to
breakfast buoyant and smiling, and gayly rubbing his
hands. He bade Mrs. Courtlandt and Max, who were
already down, a hearty and cheerful good-morrow.

“Why, Max!” he said, “you already show the mountain
air. Ah! 'tis almost indispensable to one who has
drawn it in with his first breath—been `brought up to
it,' as the phrase goes. The lowlands yonder don't get
the finest quality, as the merchants say. That is for us
the merry mountaineers. Come, excellent Mrs. Courtlandt,
some breakfast, if you please!”

Max received his father's congratulations on his good
looks with a listless smile, but replied, that he thought he
was quite well.

“You are somewhat delicate, my boy,” Doctor Courtlandt
cheerfully said, “but that is owing to our annoying
sea voyage. You can not imagine what horrible weather
we had, aunt,” he continued, turning to Mrs. Courtlandt
who was superintending the arrangement of the breakfast
table, “and as you never were at sea, I believe, you
can not form any idea of that most disagreeable rolling
of the vessel. Why, our cabin was half the time standing
on its head—nearly literally, for the vessel was on her
beam-ends, and it was hard to say which was the floor,
which the ceiling. See this pearl colored coat I have on:
it was the pride of a Parisian tailor—La Fère, rue Grenoble,
you recollect, Max—well, the water we shipped gave
it these pleasantly variegated tints: see on the shoulder.”

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“Had you a storm?”

“Yes, yes, my dear aunt; and Max stood it like a hero—
a real hero—delicate as he is. I believe his heroic
bearing, though, was somewhat owing to the fact that he
had to keep up the spirits of a nice young lady he met
with on board.”

Max smiled sadly.

“He was a great beau on board, aunt,” the Doctor continued,
“but I see breakfast is ready; let us sit down—
come, my boy!”

“What a fine day it is,” said Mrs. Courtlandt, “you
have not ridden over the farm yet, nephew. But you
will have a fine morning for it now.”

“Man proposes but God disposes,” said the Doctor, “I
had intended to do so to-day, but must really go and see
Barry and the folks over there—since they won't come to
see me. Besides I must make another visit to Miss Emberton.”

“Is she dangerously indisposed?”

“Oh, no: very slightly.”

“An old friend of yours, nephew—long ago,” said Mrs.
Courtlandt.

“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor, “and I find her much
altered. Once she was all vivacity and merriment, you
recollect: now she is decidedly tame—tamed I suppose
is a politer word. Time! time! how it changes us all.”

“It has changed you little.”

“I am naturally buoyant—constitutionally, but I am
older, older, aunt; I begin to feel it.”

“Very little in temperament, nephew.”

“Much, much, my dear aunt.”

“You are as merry as ever.”

“All forced, aunt,” Doctor Courtlandt replied, sadly
smiling, with a covert glance at Max, “but speaking of
merriment, I am going to have a dinner—do you feel equal
to it?”

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“A dinner, nephew?”

“Yes; I must formally announce my return. I have
fixed on next Friday, does that suit you.”

“Hum,” said Mrs. Courtlandt, “yes, nephew, certainly:
let me see; oh! yes, we can get ready very well by
that time.”

“You shall write the invitations—you are much better
acquainted than I am. Undertake all that for me, dear
aunt; but I will give you such names as occur to me.
Have you any friends, Max, you would like to see?
Indicate them.”

“I don't know that I have, sir,” said Max, “I was so
young when I went away, and lived so much at home
and in town, that—”

“Well, well; in future you will mix more with the
world. A man must not live `like his grandsire carved
in alabaster,' you know. I intend you to study law, be
a politician, run for the county—go to Richmond; the
family expects much of you, my youngster.”

Max smiled.

“I don't think I could ever make a speech, sir,” he
answered.

“Not make a speech?”

“A political speech.”

“Why not? 'Tis the easiest thing in life! But half-a-dozen
ideas are necessary. `Resolutions of '98—crisis in
the affairs of the nation—the Proclamation—state rights—
strict construction,' there is your speech made up at
once!”

“I have no taste for politics, sir.”

“But still would you not like to go to Richmond—that
centre of civilization, that paragon of cities?”

“You are laughing, sir.”

“Did you not like Richmond?”

“Yes, sir—it is a pretty place; but I would rather live
here.”

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