I suppose you think, that, because I lived at a plain widow-woman’s plain table, I was of course more or less infirm in point of worldly fortune.  You may not be sorry to learn, that, though not what great merchants call very rich, I was comfortable,—­comfortable,—­so that most of those moderate luxuries I described in my verses on Contentment—­most of them, I say—­were within our reach, if we chose to have them.  But I found out that the schoolmistress had a vein of charity about her, which had hitherto been worked on a small silver and copper basis, which made her think less, perhaps, of luxuries than even I did,—­modestly as I have expressed my wishes.

It is rather a pleasant thing to tell a poor young woman, whom one has contrived to win without showing his rent-roll, that she has found what the world values so highly, in following the lead of her affections.  That was a luxury I was now ready for.

I began abruptly:—­Do you know that you are a rich young person?

I know that I am very rich,—­she said,—­Heaven has given me more than I ever asked; for I had not thought love was ever meant for me.

It was a woman’s confession, and her voice fell to a whisper as it threaded the last words.

I don’t mean that,—­I said,—­you blessed little saint and seraph!—­if there’s an angel missing in the New Jerusalem, inquire for her at this boarding-house!—­I don’t mean that; I mean that I—­that is, you—­am—­are—­confound it!—­I mean that you’ll be what most people call a lady of fortune.—­And I looked full in her eyes for the effect of the announcement.

There wasn’t any.  She said she was thankful that I had what would save me from drudgery, and that some other time I should tell her about it.—­I never made a greater failure in an attempt to produce a sensation.

So the last day of summer came.  It was our choice to go to the church, but we had a kind of reception at the boarding-house.  The presents were all arranged, and among them none gave more pleasure than the modest tributes of our fellow-boarders,—­for there was not one, I believe, who did not send something.  The landlady would insist on making an elegant bride-cake, with her own hands; to which Master Benjamin Franklin wished to add certain embellishments out of his private funds,—­namely, a Cupid in a mouse-trap, done in white sugar, and two miniature flags with the stars and stripes, which had a very pleasing effect, I assure you.  The landlady’s daughter sent a richly bound copy of Tupper’s Poems.  On a blank leaf was the following, written in a very delicate and careful hand:—­

  Presented to... by... 
    On the eve ere her union in holy matrimony. 
      May sunshine ever beam o’er her!