eedn't complain. You remember hearing Nathan laugh about Joshua Blake
and his red hair years ago, perhaps you thought there was no such person
in the world but there was. Joshua was an only child, his parents lived
over at the village, and we went to school together. His hair was not a
real blazin' red but only a dark auburn, for all of Nathan's nonsense
about it. Well, we loved each other, when mere children. As we grew
older I could see but one fault in Joshua, he was inclined to be
unreasonably jealous, and that was the beginning of our trouble. I was
young and giddy, and much as I loved him rather enjoyed teasing him, and
doing trifling things which I knew would vex him, while at the same time
I cared for no one else in the world; and I am now ashamed to say I
often accepted of the attentions of others for the mischievous delight I
took in making him angry and seeing him look cross, and it may be there
was a lurking pride in knowing that I had the power to make him jealous.
Truly, Walter, the human heart is a singular compound of good and evil.
I shall ever remember the last evening we spent together, it was at a
party. I know not what spirit of mischief possessed me, but I took
particular pains to annoy Joshua by my giddy and frivolous conduct. When
we were ready to return home he offered me his arm without speaking,
this made me angry and I walked proudly by his side. We walked on in
silence till we reached the gate at my own home. As he was turning away
he said, 'I suppose, Miss Adams, it will cause you no sorrow if I tell
you this is probably the last time we shall ever meet.' I know that even
then, had I answered him differently the matter would not have ended as
it did, but my spirit rose proud and defiant, and I said with a tone of
mock levity, 'How long a journey do you purpose taking, Mr. Blake? is it
to the grist-mill, or to the sawmill, which is a little farther away?'
'You may make light of my words, if you choose,' replied he; 'but I am
in no mood for jesting. The truth is, Miss Adams, that I can no longer
endure this life of suspense and torture, and it is evident you care
more for a giddy throng of admirers than for the love of one who has
loved you from childhood. I leave here to-morrow morning, trusting to
time and distance to assist me in forgetting you.' He looked earnestly
in my face, in the bright moonlight, as he said these words, but could
read there nothing but self-will and defiance. It is even