rgetting the sense
of liberty I had started with, and proceeded straightway to Aunt Eliza.

"I have not been to church, aunt, but to walk beyond the town; it was
not so nominated in the bond, but I went. The taste of freedom was so
pleasant that I warn you there is danger of my 'striking.' When will you
have done with Newport?"

"I am pleased with Newport now," she answered, with a curious
intonation. "I like it."

"I do also."

Her keen eyes sparkled. "Did you ever like anything when you were with
me before?"

"Never. I will tell you why I like it: because I have met, and shall
probably meet, Mr. Uxbridge. I saw him to-day. He asked permission to
visit me."

"Let him come."

"He will come."

But we did not see him either at the hotel or when we went abroad.
Aunt Eliza rode with me each afternoon, and each morning we went to
the beach. She engaged me every moment when at home, and I
faithfully performed all my tasks. I clapped to the door on
self-investigation--locked it against any analysis or reasoning upon any
circumstance connected with Mr. Uxbridge. The only piece of treachery to
my code that I was guilty of was the putting of the leaf which I brought
home on Sunday between the leaves of that poem whose motto is,

"Mariana in the moated grange."

On Saturday morning, nearly a week after I saw him on my walk, Aunt
Eliza proposed that we should go to Turo Street on a shopping excursion;
she wanted a cap, and various articles besides. As we went into a large
shop I saw Mr. Uxbridge at a counter buying gloves; her quick eye caught
sight of him, and she edged away, saying she would look at some goods on
the other side; I might wait where I was. As he turned to go out he saw
me and stopped.

"I have been in New York since I saw you," he said. "Mr. Lemorne sent
for me."

"There is my aunt," I said.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I shall not go away soon again," he remarked. "I missed Newport
greatly."

I made some foolish reply, and kept my eyes on Aunt Eliza, who dawdled
unaccountably. He appeared amused, and after a little talk went away.

Aunt Eliza's purchase was a rose-colored moire antique, which she said
was to be made for me; for Mrs. Bliss, one of our hotel acquaintances,
had offered to chaperon me to the great ball which would come off in a
few days, and she had accepted the offer for me.

"There will be no chance for you to take a walk instead," she finished
with.

"I can not