“Good-night, dear Mildred!” said Mark.

He took her hand, which was fluttering as by electrical influence, and raised it tenderly to his lips.

“Good-night,” he said again.

She did not speak, but grasped his hand with fervor.  He walked away slowly towards his uncle’s house, but often stopped and looked back at the slender figure whose outlines he could barely see in the gateway under the trees.  Then, as he lost sight of her, he remembered with shame the selfish prominence he had given to his own troubles.  He was ashamed, too, of the cowardice which had kept him from uttering the words which had trembled on his lips.  But in a moment the thought of the future checked that regret.  Gloomy as his own lot might be, he could bear it; but he had no right to involve another’s happiness.  Thus he alternated between pride and abasement, hope and dejection, as many a lover has done before and since.

CHAPTER VI.

Sunday was a great day in Innisfield; for there, as in all Puritan communities, religion was the central and engrossing idea.  As the bell rang for service, every ear in town heard it, and all who were not sick or kept at home by the care of young children turned their steps towards the house of God.  The idea that there could be any choice between going to hear preaching and remaining at home was so preposterous, that it never entered into the minds of any but the openly wicked.  Whatever might be their inclinations, few had the hardihood to absent themselves from meeting, still less to ride out for pleasure, or to stroll through the woods or upon the bank of the river.  A steady succession of vehicles—­ “thorough-braced” wagons, a few more stylish carriages with elliptic springs, and here and there an ancient chaise—­tended from all quarters to the meeting-house.  The horses, from the veteran of twenty years’ service down to the untrimmed and half-trained colt, knew what the proprieties of the day required.  They trotted soberly, with faces as sedate as their drivers’, and never stopped to look in the fence-corners as they passed along, to see what they could find to be frightened at.  Nor would they often disturb worship by neighing, unless they became impatient at the length of the sermon.

Mr. Hardwick and his family, as we have before mentioned, went regularly to meeting; Lizzy and Mark sat with him in the singers’ seats, the others in a pew below.  The only guardian of the house on Sundays was a large ungainly cur, named Caesar.  The habits of this dog deserve a brief mention.  On all ordinary occasions he followed his master or others of the family, seeming to take a human delight in their company.  Whenever it was desirable to have him remain at home, nothing short of tying him would answer the purpose.  After a time he came to know the signs of preparation, and would skulk.  Upon setting out, Mr. Hardwick would tell one of the boys to catch Caesar so that