r folly had betrayed
her into. Frank Evan was a proud man, and would not ask her love again,
believing she had tacitly refused it; and how could she tell him that
she had trifled with the heart she wholly loved and longed to make her
own? She could not confide in Aunt Pen, for that worldly lady would have
no sympathy to bestow. She longed for her mother; but there was no time
to write, for Frank was going on the morrow,--might even then be gone;
and as this fear came over her, she covered up her face and wished that
she were dead. Poor Debby! her last mistake was sadder than her first,
and she was reaping a bitter harvest from her summer's sowing. She sat
and thought till her cheeks burned and her temples throbbed; but she
dared not ease her pain with tears. The gong sounded like a Judgment-Day
trump of doom, and she trembled at the idea of confronting many eyes
with such a telltale face; but she could not stay behind, for Aunt Pen
must know the cause. She tried to play her hard part well; but wherever
she looked, some fresh anxiety appeared, as if every fault and folly of
those months had blossomed suddenly within the hour. She saw Frank Evan
more sombre and more solitary than when she met him first, and cried
regretfully within herself, "How could I so forget the truth I owed
him?" She saw Clara West watching with eager eyes for the coming of
young Leavenworth, and sighed, "This is the fruit of my wicked vanity!"
She saw Aunt Pen regarding her with an anxious face, and longed to say,
"Forgive me, for I have not been sincere!" At last, as her trouble grew,
she resolved to go away and have a quiet "think,"--a remedy which had
served her in many a lesser perplexity; so, stealing out, she went to a
grove of cedars usually deserted at that hour. But in ten minutes Joe
Leavenworth appeared at the door of the summer-house, and, looking in,
said, with a well-acted start of pleasure and surprise,--

"Beg pardon, I thought there was no one here. My dear Miss Wilder, you
look contemplative; but I fancy it wouldn't do to ask the subject of
your meditations, would it?"

He paused with such an evident intention of remaining that Debby
resolved to make use of the moment, and ease her conscience of one care
that burdened it; therefore she answered his question with her usual
directness,--

"My meditations were partly about you."

Mr. Joe was guilty of the weakness of blushing violently and looking
immensely gratified; but his rap