Adams.

Our hero, as we have before stated, was familiar with the crooks and
turns of the female mind, and mentally resolved to put a bold face on
the matter, and give Miss Silence no encouragement in her attempt to
make him feel himself unwelcome. It was rather a frosty autumnal
evening, and the fire on the hearth was decaying. Mr. Joseph bustled
about most energetically, throwing down the tongs, and shovel, and
bellows, while he pulled the fire to pieces, raked out ashes and brands,
and then, in a twinkling, was at the woodpile, from whence he selected a
massive backlog and forestick, with accompaniments, which were soon
roaring and crackling in the chimney.

"There, now, that does look something like comfort," said our hero; and
drawing forward the big rocking chair, he seated himself in it, and
rubbed his hands with an air of great complacency. Miss Silence looked
not up, but stitched so much the faster, so that one might distinctly
hear the crack of the needle and the whistle of the thread all over the
apartment.

"Have you a headache to-night, Miss Silence?"

"No!" was the gruff answer.

"Are you in a hurry about those bags?" said he, glancing at a pile of
unmade ones which lay by her side.

No reply. "Hang it all!" said our hero to himself, "I'll make her
speak."

Miss Silence's needle book and brown thread lay on a chair beside her.
Our friend helped himself to a needle and thread, and taking one of the
bags, planted himself bolt upright opposite to Miss Silence, and pinning
his work to his knee, commenced stitching at a rate fully equal to her
own.

Miss Silence looked up and fidgeted, but went on with her work faster
than before; but the faster she worked, the faster and steadier worked
our hero, all in "marvellous silence." There began to be an odd
twitching about the muscles of Miss Silence's face; our hero took no
notice, having pursed his features into an expression of unexampled
gravity, which only grew more intense as he perceived, by certain uneasy
movements, that the adversary was beginning to waver.

As they were sitting, stitching away, their needles whizzing at each
other like a couple of locomotives engaged in conversation, Susan opened
the door.

The poor child had been crying for the greater part of her spare time
during the day, and was in no very merry humor; but the moment that her
astonished eyes comprehended the scene, she burst into a fit of almost
inextinguishable merriment,