o
generously offered you by almost every young man of station in this
region, and from abroad--even by me?" he said, after a pause. "The scar
is on my heart yet, cousin. No, I will not believe such a thing of you.
There is a reason back of the fact."

"William, if you respected me as you once said you ever would, like your
sister, you would not add this night the weight of your doubt to my
other burdens, but take my hand with all the strength of yours, and lift
me onward."

"I will," said the rector, swallowing a dry spot in his throat. "Though
it was a bitter time I had when you refused me, cousin, the pain led me
to my vows at the altar where I minister, and I have had the assistance
of your beautiful music there, like the angel I seem to have seen
reserved for me, in place of you, sitting at your side. And I know that
this marriage is, on your part, pure as my sister's. No further will I
inquire--what penalty you are paying for another, what mystery I cannot
pierce."

He raised his hands above her head: "The peace of God that passeth
understanding, abide with you, dear sister, forever!"

He went out with his eyes filled with tears, but hers were full of
heavenly light, feeling his benediction to be righteous.

CHAPTER XII.

PRINCESS ANNE FOLKS.

The Washington Tavern, or, rather, the brick sidewalk which came up to
its doors, and was the lounging-place for all the grown loiterers in
Princess Anne, had been in the greatest activity all that Saturday
afternoon, since it was reported by Jack Wonnell, who set himself to be
a spy on Meshach's errand, that the steeple-hat had disappeared in the
broad mansion of Judge Daniel Custis.

Jack Wonnell had a worn bell-crown on his head, exposed to all kinds of
weather, as he was in the habit of fishing in these beaver-hats, and
never owned an umbrella in his life. He lived near Meshach, in the old
part of Princess Anne, near the bridge, and was the subject of the
money-lender's scorn and contempt, as tending to make a mutual
eccentricity ridiculous. Milburn had been willing to be hated for his
hat, but Jack Wonnell made all unseasonable hats laughable, the more so
that he was nearly as old a wearer of his bell-crowns as Milburn of the
steeple-top. Although he had no such reasons of reverence and stern
consistency as his rich neighbor, he seemed to have, in his own mind,
and in plain people's, a better defence for violating the standard taste
of dress.

The pe