Holy Island, or Inishcaltra, to give it its Irish name, is a wild spot, with little remarkable about it, save the ruins of seven churches and a curious well of fabulous depth. It was, however, a favorite spot with the vicar, whose taste in localities was somehow always associated with some feature of festivity, the great merit of the present spot being that you could dine without any molestation from beggars. In such estimation, indeed, did he hold the class, that he seriously believed their craving importunity to be one of the chief reasons of dyspepsia, and was profoundly convinced that the presence of Lazarus at his gate counterbalanced many of the goods which fortune had bestowed upon Dives. “Here we dine in real comfort,” said he, as he seated himself under the shelter of an ivy-covered wall, with a wide reach of the lake at his feet. “When I come back from California with that million or two,” said Tom, “I 'll build a cottage here, where we can all come and dine continually.” “Let us keep the anniversary of the present day as a sort of foundation era,” said the vicar. “I like everything that promises pleasure,” said Sir Brook, “but I like to stipulate that we do not draw too long a bill on Fortune. Think how long a year is. This time twelvemonth, for example, you, my dear doctor, may be a bishop, and not over inclined to these harmless levities. Tom there will be, as he hints, gold-crushing, at the end of the earth. Trafford, not improbably, ruling some rajah's kingdom in the far East. Of your destiny, fair Lucy, brightest of all, it is not for me to speak. Of my own it is not worth speaking.” “Nolo episcopari,” said the vicar; “pass me the Madeira.” “You forget, perhaps, that is the phrase for accepting the mitre,” said Sir Brook, laughing. “Bishops, like belles, say 'No' when they mean 'Yes.'” “And who told you that belles did?” broke in Lucy. “I am in a sad minority here, but I stand up for my sex.” “I repeat a popular prejudice, fair lady.” “And Lucy will not have it that belles are as illogical as bishops? I see I was right in refusing the bench,” said the vicar. “What bright boon of Fortune is Trafford meditating the rejection of?” said Sir Brook; and the young fellow's cheek grew crimson as he tried to laugh off the reply. “Who made this salad?” cried Tom. “It was I; who dares to question it?” said Lucy. “The doctor has helped himself twice to it, and that test I take to be a certificate to character.”