Only once before in my life had I seen that absorbed expression on a human countenance. I was being conducted over the library of the late William Ewart Gladstone, while the venerable statesman sat there writing at his table near the window. A member of the family accompanied me, and began to explain, in a loud voice, the space-saving arrangement of the books. “Hush!” I whispered, “we must not disturb Mr. Gladstone.” “He will not hear,” came the hearty reply. “I had no idea,” was my comment, “that his deafness was so serious.” “Neither is it,” I was informed; “but when Mr. Gladstone is absorbed in mental work a pistol-shot would not disturb him.” The unmoving face I saw last year in the Ottawa office, like that other unmoving face I saw years ago in the Hawarden library, seemed mesmerised, and to have the power of mesmerising me. I was paying but scant attention to my companion’s explanations about some knotty business problem that had arisen to engage the attention of J. R. Booth. It was a matter, he mentioned, that must be settled before the mail went out. At this I pricked up my ears, realising, with a curious sense of regret, that the old man’s present ecstasy would be short-lived. This thought brought in its train a further reflection: obviously the paper enterprise was now running on a smooth and perfected basis. Therefore it must have lost its efficacy as a substitute for the railroad. “When does Mr. Booth start his new venture?” I asked. “But,” exclaimed my astonished companion, “you surely have not heard——” I hastened to explain that I spoke from the merest abstract conjecture. “Strange!” he rejoined. “As a matter of fact, a new departure is in contemplation. Come back here in two years’ time, and—well, I think you will be interested in what you see.” [Illustration: MARKET DAY IN MONTREAL: SCENE IN JACQUES CARTIER SQUARE] CHAPTER VI TORONTO AND ITS EXHIBITION Montreal, like Quebec, is rich in historic associations, fine old buildings, and French-Canadians. To stand on Mount Royal—a precipitous park rising to a height of seven hundred and forty feet—and look down over the magnificent, ruddy city of domes and spires, with the St. Lawrence sweeping away into a lilac haze of Canadian geography, is a thrilling experience one never forgets. When I last saw that scene, little birds were singing in overhanging trees, and I heard the peaceful music of bells ringing in the old convents far below.