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 'You have never been there?'

'No, I...I thought it was not frequented by ladies.'

'Oh, to the contrary, quite correct. Washington himself stopped there. They have his great state coach in the coach house still.'

'But did Mrs. Washington stop, too?' she asked, and laughed.

'Oh, indeed, she must have. And Professor Longfellow and your Mr. Fox are habitués. In fact, Longfellow is intending to write a series of poetic legends, fancies, and such things, and the scene of the telling shall be this old inn. He calls it "The Wayside Inn." They have a living-room reserved for them here, where they tell each other stories, translate Italian and German, and discuss the nobility of so wretched a thing as life and the power of so puling an art as literature. I grow sleepy, I yawn, scratch my head, and take another drink. Frankly, I don't like most of the literary men of Boston.'

He drew the horses into the driveway.

'Captain Jones, I feel, really I believe, it is wisest not to stop.'

'My dear girl, I cannot drive the little horses all the way back without giving them any rest. Come, Lanice, I've ordered dinner, and have arranged things so cleverly we can be sure of a private dining-room. In the evening, in the moonlight, we'll drive back again, I assure you.'

The landlord bustled out to meet them, calling over his shoulder for a stable boy to care for the ani-