"Did you speak to me, sir?"
William looked a little surprised at first, but seating himself by her, "To be sure," said he; "and I came to know why you ran away without leaving any message for me?"
"It did not occur to me," said Mary, in the dry tone which, in a lady, means, "I will excuse you from any further conversation, if you please."
William felt as if there was something different from common in all this, but thought that perhaps he was mistaken, and so continued:--
"What a pity, now, that you should be so careless of me, when I was so thoughtful of you! I have come all this distance, to see how you do."
"I am sorry to have given you the trouble," said Mary.
"Cousin, are you unwell to-day?" said William.
"No, sir," said Mary, going on with her sewing.
There was something so marked and decisive in all this, that William could scarcely believe his ears. He turned away, and commenced a conversation with a young lady; and Mary, to show that she could talk if she chose, commenced relating a story to her cousins, and presently they were all in a loud laugh.
"Mary has been full of her knickknacks to-day," said her old uncle, joining them.
William looked at her: she never seemed brighter or in better spirits, and he began to think that even Cousin Mary might puzzle a man sometimes.
He turned away, and began a conversation with old Mr. Zachary Coan on the raising of buckwheat--a subject which evidently required profound thought, for he never looked more grave, not to say melancholy.
Mary glanced that way, and was struck with the sad and almost severe expression with which he was listening to the details of Mr. Zachary, and was convinced that he was no more thinking of buckwheat than she was.
"I never thought of hurting his feelings so much," said she, relenting; "after all, he has been very kind to me. But he might have told me about it, and not somebody else." And hereupon she cast another glance towards him.
William was not talking, but sat with his eyes fixed on the snuffer-tray, with an intense gravity of gaze that quite troubled her, and she could not help again blaming herself.
"To be sure! Aunt was right; he could not help his thoughts. I will try to forget it," thought she.
Now, you must not think Mary was sitting still and gazing during this soliloquy. No, she was talking and laughing, apparently the most unconcerned spectator in the room. So pa.s.sed the evening till the little company broke up.
"I am ready to attend you home," said William, in a tone of cold and almost haughty deference.
"I am obliged to you," said the young lady, in a similar tone, "but I shall stay all night;" then, suddenly changing her tone, she said, "No, I cannot keep it up any longer. I will go home with you, Cousin William."
"Keep up what?" said William, with surprise.
Mary was gone for her bonnet. She came out, took his arm, and walked on a little way.
"You have advised me always to be frank, cousin," said Mary, "and I must and will be; so I shall tell you all, though I dare say it is not according to rule."
"All what?" said William.
"Cousin," said she, not at all regarding what he said, "I was very much vexed this afternoon."
"So I perceived, Mary."
"Well, it is vexatious," she continued, "though, after all, we cannot expect people to think us perfect; but I did not think it quite fair in you not to tell _me_."
"Tell you what, Mary?"
Here they came to a place where the road turned through a small patch of woods. It was green and shady, and enlivened by a lively chatterbox of a brook. There was a mossy trunk of a tree that had fallen beside it, and made a pretty seat. The moonlight lay in little patches upon it, as it streamed down through the branches of the trees. It was a fairy-looking place, and Mary stopped and sat down, as if to collect her thoughts.
After picking up a stick, and playing a moment in the water, she began:--
"After all, cousin, it was very natural in you to say so, if you thought so; though I should not have supposed you would think so."
"Well, I should be glad if I could know what it is," said William, in a tone of patient resignation.
"O, I forgot that I had not told you," said she, pushing back her hat, and speaking like one determined to go through with the thing. "Why, cousin, I have been told that you spoke of my manners towards yourself as being freer--more--obtrusive than they should be. And now," said she, her eyes flashing, "you see it was not a very easy thing to tell you, but I began with being frank, and I will be so, for the sake of satisfying _myself_."
To this William simply replied, "Who told you this, Mary?"
"My aunt."
"Did she say I said it to her?"
"Yes; and I do not so much object to your saying it as to your _thinking_ it, for you know I did not force myself on your notice; it was you who sought my acquaintance and won my confidence; and that you, above all others, should think of me in this way!"
"I never did think so, Mary," said William, quietly.
"Nor ever _said_ so?"
"Never. I should think you might have _known_ it, Mary."
"But----" said Mary.
"But," said William, firmly, "Aunt Abigail is certainly mistaken."
"Well, I am glad of it," said Mary, looking relieved, and gazing in the brook. Then looking up with warmth, "and, cousin, you never must think so. I am ardent, and I express myself freely; but I never meant, I am sure I never _should_ mean, any thing more than a sister might say."
"And are you sure you never could, if all my happiness depended on it, Mary?"
She turned and looked up in his face, and saw a look that brought conviction. She rose to go on, and her hand was taken and drawn into the arm of her cousin, and that was the end of the first and the last difficulty that ever arose between them.
THE MINISTRATION OF OUR DEPARTED FRIENDS.
A NEW YEAR"S REVERY.
"It is a beautiful belief, That ever round our head Are hovering on viewless wings The spirits of the dead."
While every year is taking one and another from the ranks of life and usefulness, or the charmed circle of friendship and love, it is soothing to remember that the spiritual world is gaining in riches through the poverty of this.
In early life, with our friends all around us,--hearing their voices, cheered by their smiles,--death and the spiritual world are to us remote, misty, and half-fabulous; but as we advance in our journey, and voice after voice is hushed, and form after form vanishes from our side, and our shadow falls almost solitary on the hillside of life, the soul, by a necessity of its being, tends to the unseen and spiritual, and pursues in another life those it seeks in vain in this.