“There, sir; it's all signed and sealed. Old Poll's to do the work, and you 're to be too ill to appear. That will require your stayin' here till nightfall; but when the folks is at the hall, you can slip through the town and make for New Lebanon.” “And I am to pay--how much did you say?” “What you proposed yourself, sir. A hundred dollars.” “At eight o'clock, then, let me have a wagon ready,” said Layton, too much irritated with his own conduct to be moved by anything in that of his host. He therefore paid little attention to Mr. Heron's account of all the ingenuity and address it had cost him to induce old Poll to become his substitute, nor would he listen to one word of the conversation reported to have passed on that memorable occasion. What cared he to hear how old Poll looked ten years younger since the bargain? He was to be dressed like a gentleman; he was to be in full black; he was to resume all the dignity of the station he had once held; while he gave the public what he had hitherto resolutely refused,--some account of himself and his own life. Layton turned away impatiently at these details; they were all associated with too much that pained to interest or to please him. “The matter is concluded now, and let me hear no more of it,” said he, peevishly. “I start at eight.” And with this he turned away, leaving no excuse to his host to remain, or resume an unpalatable subject. “Your wagon shall be here at the hour, and a smart pair of horses to bowl you along, sir,” said Heron, too well satisfied on the whole to be annoyed by a passing coldness. CHAPTER XLIV. THE LECTURER Alfred Layton's day dragged drearily along, watching and waiting for the hour of departure. Close prisoner as he was, the time hung heavily on his hands, without a book or any sort of companionship to beguile its weariness. He tried various ways to pass the hours; he pondered over a faintly colored and scarce traceable map on the walls. It represented America, with all the great western annexations, in that condition of vague obscurity in which geographers were wont to depict the Arctic regions. He essayed to journalize his experiences on the road; but he lost patience in recording the little incidents which composed them. He endeavored to take counsel with himself about his future; but he lost heart in the inquiry, as he bethought him how little direction he had ever given hitherto to his life, and how completely he had been the sport of accident. He was vexed and angry with himself. It was the first time he had been called upon to act by his own guidance for months back, and he had made innumerable mistakes in the attempt. Had Quackinboss been with him, he well knew all these blunders had been avoided. This reflection pained him, just as it has pained many a gifted and accomplished man to think that life and the world are often more difficult than book-learning.