And what book shall we read?
Perhaps the best of all we can select is Irving's Life of Columbus; Mr.Bennet himself has read it in the previous year, but he is sure his children will be interested and delighted by it; and, for himself, he likes nothing better than to read over and over a book he knows and loves.

He puts down his knife as he speaks, and plays with his tea-spoon on the edge of the cup.
"I find myself enchanted with the description of the islands in the Gulf, and the life of those soft-souled natives.

As I read on, I smell the sweet warm odors from the land; I pick up the branches of green trees floating far out upon the water; I see the drifting sea-weed, and the lights at night upon the shore; then I land, and lie under the palm-trees, and hear the mellow tongue of the tropics; I taste the luscious fruits; I bask in that rich, eternal sun--" His eyes swim with tropical languor as he speaks.

He still mechanically balances the spoon upon the cup, while his mind is deep sunk in reverie.

As his wife glances at him, both the look of tenderness and of anxiety in her face deepen.
But the moment of silence rouses him, and with the nervous smile upon his face, he says, "Oh--ah!--I--yes--let it be Irving's Columbus!" Toward his wife Mr.Bennet's manner is almost painfully thoughtful.