Thinking of sleep reminded Miss Wimple that she had a pious task to perform before she could betake her to her sweet little cot.  A superannuated and bedridden woman, who had nursed her mother in her last illness, lived on the northern outskirts of the town; and she must cross the long covered bridge that spanned the Hendrik River to take a basket full of comforting trifles to old Hetty that night.

About nine o’clock Miss Wimple had done her charitable errand, and was on her way home again, with a light step and a happy heart, an empty basket and old Hetty’s abundant blessings.  She was alone, but feared nothing,—­the streets of Hendrik at night were familiar to her and she to them; and although her shy and quiet traits were not sufficiently understood to make her universally beloved, not a loafing ruffian in town but knew her modest face, her odd attire, and her straightforward walk; and the rudest respected her.

As she approached the covered bridge, the moon was shining brightly at the entrance, making the gloom within profounder.  It was a long, wooden structure, of a kind common enough on the turnpikes of the Atlantic States, where they cross the broader streams.  Stout posts and cross-beams, and an arch that stretched from end to end, divided the bridge into two longitudinal compartments, for travellers going and coming respectively; there were small windows on each side, and at either end, on a conspicuous signboard, were the Company’s “Rules,”—­“Walk your Horses over this Bridge, or be subject to a Fine of not less than Five nor exceeding Twenty Dollars”—­“Keep to the Right, as the Law directs.”

As Miss Wimple entered the shadow of the bridge on the right hand, she was startled by hearing excited voices, which seemed to come from the other side of the central arch, and about the middle of the bridge, where the darkness was deepest:—­

“Speak low, I say, or be silent!  Some one will be coming presently;—­I heard steps approaching even now”—­Miss Wimple instinctively stopped, and stood motionless, almost holding her breath, at the end of the arch where the moonlight did not reach.  She was no eavesdropper, mark you,—­the meannesses she scorned included that character in a special clause.  But she had recognised the voice, and with her own true delicacy would spare the speaker the shame of discovery and the dread of exposure.—­“Speak low, or I will leave you.  If you are indifferent for yourself, you shall not toss me to the geese of Hendrik.”

“You are right";—­it was a woman’s voice; but, whatever her tone had been before, she spoke so low now, and with a voice so hoarse with suppressed emotion, so altered by a sort of choking whisper, that Miss Wimple, if she had ever heard it before, could not recognize it;—­“You are right; the time for that has not come;—­I could not stay to enjoy it;—­I am going now, but we will meet again.”

“What would you have?  I have said I would marry you,—­and leave you,—­so soon as I can shake myself clear of that other stupid infatuation.”