upon the window-sill. Their fragrance gave a
delicate tone to the atmosphere of the room, and perhaps penetrated more
nearly to Bressant's heart than an hour full of unanswerable arguments
and exhortations. He turned to the fat servant, who stood smiling, and
wiping her hands on her apron.

"Who brought these flowers? Who arranged them here?"

"Sure, and wasn't it Abbie herself!" replied the functionary, giving her
mistress her Christian name, with true democratic freedom. "More than
that; isn't it herself has swept out the room every week, let alone
dusting of it every day of her life! which is not mentioning that the
flowers has been exchanged every day likewise, and fresh put in place of
them, by reason that the old shouldn't fade; which is a fact
unprecedented, and unbeknown in my experience, which have been in this
house nine year come St. Patrick's day--God bless him!"

Having thus delivered herself of what had evidently been weighing on her
mind for weeks past, the fat servant-girl stopped wiping her hands on
her apron (without help of which praiseworthy act she could no more have
talked, than a donkey with a heavy stone tied to his tail can bray), and
turning herself about, waddled toward the door. Bressant hesitated a
moment, passed his hand rapidly down over his face and beard, and then,
catching open the door just as the fat servant-girl was closing it, he
requested her to inform Abbie, when she came back, of his return, and
tell her he would like to speak with her.

"I'll do it, sir; rest easy," was the encouraging reply. "Faith, and
it's a handsome man he is, and a sweet, lovely look he has out of his
eyes; leastways now, which is, maybe, more than could be said when first
he came here, three months ago, and looked that cold and sharp at a body
as might make one shiver like. It's likely his being going to marry Miss
Sophie up to the Parsonage as has fetched a change in him; which, she's
a dear good girl; and may they be happy--God bless the both of them!"
Thus soliloquizing, the fat servant-girl, apron in hand, descended the
narrow stairs, and betook herself to the kitchen.

Bressant paced restlessly up and down his small room, stopping every
minute or so to bend over the flower-pots in the window, or take a sniff
from the bouquet on the table. His cheeks and forehead were flushed, and
his eyes very brilliant. His lips worked incessantly against one
another, and he held his hands now clasped behind his