beaux--enter Miss Lavinia--who asks what thing Miss Fanny speaks of,
with a smile upon the austere countenance.

Fanny declines explaining, but blushes instead, and asks Miss Lavinia
where she got that darling shawl, which is really a perfect love of
a thing; and so, with smiles from Redbud, the conversation continues
until dinner-time, when the Squire makes his appearance, and after
kissing Miss Redbud, affects to take Miss Fanny by the elbows and bump
her head against the ceiling, baby-fashion. In this attempt, we need
not say, the worthy gentleman fails, from the fact, that young ladies
of seventeen, are, for some reason, heavier than babies, and are
kissed with much more ease, and far less trouble, standing on their
feet, than chucked toward the ceiling for that purpose.

Having dined and chatted pleasantly, and told a number of amusing
tales for Miss Redbud's edification--and against the silent protest
and remonstrance of said Miss Lavinia--the Squire declares that he
must go and see to his threshing; and, accordingly, after swearing at
Caesar, goes away; and is heard greeting somebody as he departs.

This somebody turns out to be Verty; and the young man's face blushes
with delight at sight of Redbud, whom he runs to, and devours with his
glances. Redbud blushes slightly; but this passes soon, and the kind
eyes beam on him softly--no confusion in them now--and the small hand
is not drawn away from him, but remains in his own.

And Fanny--amiable Fanny--knowing all about it, smiles; and Miss
Lavinia, staidest of her sex, suspecting something of it, looks
grave and dignified, but does not frown; and Verty, with perfect
forgetfulness of the presence of these persons, and much carelessness
in regard to their opinions, gazes upon Redbud with his dreamy smile,
and talks to her.

So the day passes onward, and the shades of evening take away the
merry voices--the bright sunset shining on them as they go. They must
come again without waiting for her to return their visit--says Redbud
smiling--and the happy laughter which replies to her, makes Apple
Orchard chuckle through its farthest chambers, and the portraits on
the wall--bright now in vagrant gleams of crimson sundown--utter a
low, well-bred cachinnation, such as is befitting in the solemn,
dignified old cavaliers and ladies, looking from their laces, and
hair-powder, and stiff ruffs, upon their little grandchild.

So the merry voices become faint, and the brig