It was a scene to awaken the soul of a poet, to inspire a landscape painter with increased love of his art; and as our two friends McGuilp and Parnassus strolled arm-in-arm together through this region of enchantment, leaving their footprints in the crisp frost, which they traversed with the buoyant footsteps of youth, leaving the elder members considerably in the rear, each felt himself drawn towards the other by a bond of common sympathy. It is not necessary to record every expression of enthusiasm that escaped the lips of our two friends, nor to follow minutely the philosophic meditations of the more mature members of the club who brought up the rear, as at every step the scene unfolded new and fresh beauties to their view. Let it suffice our reader that their morning's walk proved highly beneficial to them all, for they returned with marvellous appetites to the inn, where a sumptuous breakfast of eggs and bacon, coffee, hot rolls, etc., had just been spread for them by the fair hands of our Helen, who waited to greet them on the doorstep. The usual merry bantering from each member of the club in turn succeeded, as a matter of course, and was replied to on Helen's part by a pretty rustic coyness or smart repartee. Our artist thought he had never seen her look to such advantage as now, glowing in the full morning light. He noticed, too, that she was more sprucely dressed than usual. What could it mean? As he asked himself this question, the church bells of the village began to chime. The mystery was out--it was Sunday, and McGuilp's hopes of a sitting fell to the ground. "How say you--Sunday again?" exclaimed Mr. Oldstone, as he sat down to his hot coffee. "Dear me! how the week has passed away!" Then passing his hand over his chin, he said, "I omitted to shave this morning. My hand shook so, owing to the stiffness of my night-cap last night before I went to roost. It will not do to appear at church with a chin like Hamlet's 'fretful porcupine,' and as I cannot shave myself, I must inquire if there be not someone skilled in the noble science of barber-craft in the village. How say you, Helen, my girl, know you not some knight of the razor, some nimble and expert mower, who will rid me of this crop without finding it necessary to combine the art of the leech at the same time?" "Aye, sir," answered Helen; "there is young Master Suds, the village barber, successor to Old Hackchin, whom folks say never was much account. Young Suds is lately from France, where he has been improving himself in his art. He has introduced into the village all sorts of new modes for trimming the hair and wigs, with numerous other French novelties. You would be sure to be pleased with him, sir."