Montreal that lovely summer day.  I could not read, but sat on the upper deck, feasting my eyes and dreaming dreams as even staid maiden ladies will when out on a holiday.  Suddenly I caught the sound of voices in earnest discussion on the lower deck, and, glancing down, saw several gentlemen leaning against the rail as they talked over certain events of great public interest at that moment.  I knew that a party of distinguished persons were on board, as my friend’s husband, Dr. Tracy, knew some of them, and pointed out Mr. Warburton as one of the rising scientific men of the day.  I remembered that my sister had met him years ago, and much admired him both for his own gifts and because he had known Lyman.  As other people were listening, I felt no delicacy about doing the same, for the conversation was an eloquent one, and well worth catching.  So interested did I become that I forgot the great rafts floating by, the picturesque shores, the splendid river, and leaned nearer and nearer that no word might be lost, till my book slid out of my lap and fell straight down upon the head of one of the gentlemen, giving him a smart blow, and knocking his hat overboard.”

“Oh, what did you do?” cried the girls, much amused at this unromantic catastrophe.

Mrs. Warburton clasped her hands dramatically, as her eyes twinkled and a pretty color came into her cheeks at the memory of that exciting moment.

“My dears, I could have dropped with mortification!  What could I do but dodge and peep as I waited to see the end of this most untoward accident?  Fortunately I was alone on that side of the deck, so none of the ladies saw my mishap and, slipping along the seat to a distant corner, I hid my face behind a convenient newspaper, as I watched the little flurry of fishing up the hat by a man in a boat near by, and the merriment of the gentlemen over this assault of William Wordsworth upon Samuel Warburton.  The poor book passed from hand to hand, and many jokes were made upon the ‘fair Helen’ whose name was written on the paper cover which projected it.

“’I knew a Miss Harper once,—­a lovely woman, but her name was not Helen, and she is dead,—­God bless her!’ I heard Mr. Warburton say, as he flapped his straw hat to dry it, and rubbed his head, which fortunately was well covered with thick gray hair at that time.

“I longed to go down and tell him who I was, but I had not the courage to face all those men.  It really was most embarrassing; so I waited for a more private moment to claim my book, as I knew we should not land till night, so there was no danger of losing it.

“’This is rather unusual stuff for a woman to be reading.  Some literary lady doubtless.  Better look her up, Warburton.  You’ll know her by the color of her stockings when she comes down to lunch,’ said a jolly old gentlenoan, in a tone that made me ‘rouge high,’ as Evelina says.

“’I shall know her by her intelligent face and conversation, if this book belongs to a lady.  It will be an honor and a pleasure to meet a woman who enjoys Wordsworth, for in my opinion he is one of our truest poets,’ answered Mr. Warburton, putting the book in his pocket, with a look and a tone that were most respectful and comforting to me just then.