That poem—Lowell's 'The Cathedral'—flashed into my mind as I came upon your parish church awhile ago, and
"'gazed abashed,
Child of an age that lectures, not creates,'
at its old honours. I quoted the best part of a stanza to myself in the street. I'm afraid that is a habit of mine."
"It must be very nice," said the lady apprehensively; "yes, indeed."
It appeared that she was no more acquainted with Lowell than with Mr. Boultbee, so gliding to a subject which lay quite near his heart this afternoon he introduced a third name.
"When I was here last a Dr. Page occupied the villa across the fence," he went on. "He had a daughter. To be prolix, he had several daughters, but to me his family consisted of Miss Mary. We were engaged. I won't ask you if they are there still—something warns me that they are not—but can you, by any chance, give me news of them?"
"I am sorry I cannot," she returned, fluttering. "There has been no Dr. Page in Sweetbay—I am almost certain there has been no Dr. Page in Sweetbay since I settled here. I am positive there is none now—quite positive. There's Dr. Hunt, there's Dr. Tatham—" She recounted laboriously the names of all the medical men practising about the town, while he wondered what she was doing it for.
"I thank you heartily," he said, when she reached the end of the list.
The next moment it became evident that she, in her turn, had a question to put, for her glance was interrogating him already, and at last she faltered:—
"Pardon my asking you, but did I understand you to say that you were—h'm—engaged to the daughter of Dr. Page twenty-five years ago? Surely when you said you were a child then, it was no figure of speech?"