gs she had
read in books, but never realized so forcibly as at present. But what
was to be done? Of course she did not wish to speak a word to William
again, and wished he did not board there; and finally she put on her
bonnet, and determined to go over to her other aunt's in the
neighborhood, and spend the day, so that she might not see him at
dinner.

But it so happened that Mr. William, on coming home at noon, found
himself unaccountably lonesome during school recess for dinner, and
hearing where Mary was, determined to call after school at night at her
aunt's, and attend her home.

Accordingly, in the afternoon, as Mary was sitting in the parlor with
two or three cousins, Mr. William entered.

Mary was so anxious to look just as if nothing was the matter, that she
turned away her head, and began to look out of the window just as the
young gentleman came up to speak to her. So, after he had twice inquired
after her health, she drew up very coolly, and said,--

"Did you speak to me, sir?"

William looked a little surprised at first, but seating himself by her,
"To be sure," said he; "and I came to know why you ran away without
leaving any message for me?"

"It did not occur to me," said Mary, in the dry tone which, in a lady,
means, "I will excuse you from any further conversation, if you please."
William felt as if there was something different from common in all
this, but thought that perhaps he was mistaken, and so continued:--

"What a pity, now, that you should be so careless of me, when I was so
thoughtful of you! I have come all this distance, to see how you do."

"I am sorry to have given you the trouble," said Mary.

"Cousin, are you unwell to-day?" said William.

"No, sir," said Mary, going on with her sewing.

There was something so marked and decisive in all this, that William
could scarcely believe his ears. He turned away, and commenced a
conversation with a young lady; and Mary, to show that she could talk if
she chose, commenced relating a story to her cousins, and presently they
were all in a loud laugh.

"Mary has been full of her knickknacks to-day," said her old uncle,
joining them.

William looked at her: she never seemed brighter or in better spirits,
and he began to think that even Cousin Mary might puzzle a man
sometimes.

He turned away, and began a conversation with old Mr. Zachary Coan on
the raising of buckwheat--a subject which evidently required profound
thought, for he