The shopman returned. "Oh, what a sweet face!" she said, looking at the frontispiece of a little book she got hold of; "do look, Henry; whom does it put you in mind of?"
"Why, it's meant for St. John the Baptist," said Henry.
"It's so like little Angelina Primrose," said she, "the hair is just hers. I wonder it doesn't strike you."
"It does—it does," said he, smiling at her; "but it's getting late; you must not be out much longer in the sharp air, and you have nothing for your throat. I have chosen my books while you have been gazing on that little St. John."
"I can't think who it is so like," continued she; "oh, I know; it's Angelina's aunt, Lady Constance."
"Come, Louisa, the horses too will suffer; we must return to our friends."
"Oh, there's one book, I can't recollect it; tell me what it is, Henry. I shall be so sorry not to have got it."
"Was it the new work on Gregorian Chants?" asked he.
"Ah, it's true, I want it for the school-children, but it's not that."
"Is it 'The Catholic Parsonage'?" he asked again; "or, 'Lays of the Apostles'? or, 'The English Church older than the Roman'? or, 'Anglicanism of the Early Martyrs'? or, 'Confessions of a Pervert'? or, 'Eustace Beville'? or, 'Modified Celibacy'?"