her lover? In what words first should she speak to
him,--and in what sort? Should she let any sign of love escape from
her? Her resolution as to her great purpose was so fixed that there
was no need for further thought on that matter. It was on the little
things that she was intent. How far might she indulge herself in
allowing some tenderness to escape her? How best might she save him
from any great pain, and yet show him that she was proud that he had
loved her? In what dress she might receive him, in that would she sit
at table with her father. It was Christmas time, and the occasion
would justify whatever of feminine smartness her wardrobe possessed.
As she brought out from its recess the rich silk frock, still all
but new, in which he had first seen her, she told herself that she
would probably have worn it for her father's sake, had no lover been
coming. On the day before, the Christmas Day, she had worn it at
church. And the shoes with the pretty buckles, and the sober but yet
handsome morsel of lace which was made for her throat,--and which she
had not been ashamed to wear at that memorable dinner,--they were
all brought out. It was Christmas, and her father's presence would
surely have justified them all! And would she not wish to leave in
her lover's eyes the memory of whatever prettiness she might have
possessed? They were all produced. But when the moment came for
arraying herself they were all restored to their homes. She would be
the simple Quaker girl as she was to be found there on Monday, on
Tuesday, and on Wednesday. It would be better that he should know how
little there was for him to lose.

Zachary Fay ate his dinner almost without a word. She, though she
smiled on him and tried to look contented, found it almost impossible
to speak. She uttered some little phrases which she intended to be
peculiar to the period of the year; but she felt that her father's
mind was intent on what was coming, and she discontinued her efforts.
She found it hardly possible to guess at the frame of his mind, so
silent had he been since first he had yielded to her when she assured
him of her purpose. But she had assured him, and he could not doubt
her purpose. If he were unhappy for the moment it was needful that
he should be unhappy. There could be no change, and therefore it was
well that he should be silent. He had hardly swallowed his dinner
when he rose from his chair, and, bringing in his hat from the
passage, spo