d have lost these sweet and friendly accents."

And that is the "incident of the coat."

IV.

The week that has just passed has been a pleasant one. I have thought, a
hundred times, "how good a thing it is to live!"

I must have been a good deal cramped and confined in the city; but I enjoy
the fair landscapes here all the more. The family are very friendly and
kind--except Mrs. Barrington, who does not seem to like me. She scarcely
treats me with anything more than scrupulous courtesy. The squire and
Annie, however, make up for this coldness. They are both extremely
cordial. It was friendly in the squire to give me this mass of executorial
accounts to arrange. So far it has been done to his entire satisfaction;
and the payment for my services is very liberal. How I long for money!

There was a splendid party at the hall on Tuesday. It reminded me of old
times, when we, too,--but that is idle to remember. I do not sigh for the
past. I know all is for the best. Still, I could not help thinking, as I
looked on the brilliant spectacle, that the world was full of changes and
vicissitudes. Well, the party was a gay and delightful one; the dancing
quite extravagant. Annie was the beauty of the assemblage--the belle of
the ball--and she gave me a new proof of the regret which she felt for the
speech about my coat. At the end of a cotillon she refused the arms of
half a dozen eager gallants to take mine, and promenade out on the
portico.

"Do you ever dance?" she said.

"Oh, yes," I replied; "that is, I did dance once; but of late years I have
been too much occupied. We live quietly."

"You say 'we.'"

"I mean my mother and I; I should have said 'poorly,' perhaps, instead of
'quietly,' And I am busy."

She bowed her head kindly, and said, smiling:

"But you are not busy to-night; and if you'll not think me forward, I will
reverse the etiquette, and ask you to dance with me."

"Indeed I will do so with very great pleasure."

"Are you sure?"

"Could you doubt it?"

"I was so _very_ rude to you!"

And she hung her head. That, then, was the secret of her choice of my arm.
I could only assure her that I did not think her rude, and I hoped she
would forget the whole incident. I was pleased in spite of all--for I like
to think well of women. The cynical writers say they are all mean, and
mercenary, and cowardly. Was Annie? She had left many finely-dressed
gentlemen, faultlessly appointed, to dance with a poor s