had a jealous fear of people of
breeding,--an apprehension lest they should look down on one whose life
had been laid out of the course of their conventional ideas; and
therefore, though he had sufficient ability and vigor of mind to acquit
himself to advantage in this conversation, it gave him all the while a
secret uneasiness. After a few moments, he rose up moodily, and saying
that he was very much fatigued, he went into the house to retire.

Mr. Adams rose to go also, and Moses might have felt in a more Christian
frame of mind, had he listened to the last words of the conversation
between him and Mara.

"Do you remain long in Harpswell?" she asked.

"That depends on circumstances," he replied. "If I do, may I be
permitted to visit you?"

"As a friend--yes," said Mara; "I shall always be happy to see you."

"No more?"

"No more," replied Mara.

"I had hoped," he said, "that you would reconsider."

"It is impossible," said she; and soft voices can pronounce that word,
_impossible_, in a very fateful and decisive manner.

"Well, God bless you, then, Miss Lincoln," he said, and was gone.

Mara stood in the doorway and saw him loosen his boat from its moorings
and float off in the moonlight, with a long train of silver sparkles
behind.

A moment after Moses was looking gloomily over her shoulder.

"Who is that puppy?" he said.

"He is not a puppy, but a very fine young man," said Mara.

"Well, that very fine young man, then?"

"I thought I told you. He is a Mr. Adams of Boston, and a distant
connection of the Sewells. I met him when I was visiting at Judge
Sewell's in Boston."

"You seemed to be having a very pleasant time together?"

"We were," said Mara, quietly.

"It's a pity I came home as I did. I'm sorry I interrupted you," said
Moses, with a sarcastic laugh.

"You didn't interrupt us; he had been here almost two hours."

Now Mara saw plainly enough that Moses was displeased and hurt, and had
it been in the days of her fourteenth summer, she would have thrown her
arms around his neck, and said, "Moses, I don't care a fig for that man,
and I love you better than all the world." But this the young lady of
eighteen would not do; so she wished him good-night very prettily, and
pretended not to see anything about it.

Mara was as near being a saint as human dust ever is; but--she was a
woman saint; and therefore may be excused for a little gentle
vindictiveness. She was, in a merciful way, rat