But my bliss did not end here. In a week or so, behold one morning a note—written, indeed, by the dean—but directed in Lillian's own hand, inviting me to come there to tea, that I might see a few, of the literary characters of the day.
I covered the envelope with kisses, and thrust it next my fluttering heart. I then proudly showed the note to Mackaye. He looked pleased, yet pensive, and then broke out with a fresh adaptation of his favourite song,
—and shovel hats and a' that— A man's a man for a' that.
"The auld gentleman is a man and a gentleman; an' has made a verra courteous, an' weel considerit move, gin ye ha' the sense to profit by it, an' no turn it to yer ain destruction."
"Destruction?"
"Ay—that's the word, an' nothing less, laddie!"
And he went into the outer shop, and returned with a volume of Bulwer's
"Ernest Maltravers."
"What! are you a novel reader, Mr. Mackaye?"
"How do ye ken what I may ha' thocht gude to read in my time? Yell be pleased the noo to sit down an' begin at that page—an read, mark, learn, an' inwardly digest, the history of Castruccio Cesarini—an' the gude God gie ye grace to lay the same to heart."
I read that fearful story; and my heart sunk, and my eyes were full of tears, long ere I had finished it. Suddenly I looked up at Mackaye, half angry at the pointed allusion to my own case.