So Miss Fanny chatted on with Redbud, telling her a thousand things, which, fortunately, have nothing to do with our present chronicle—­else would the unfortunate chronicler find his pen laughed at for its tardy movement.  Fanny’s rapid flow of laughing and picturesque words, could no more be kept up with by a sublunary instrument of record, than the shadow of a darting bird can be caught by the eager hand of the child grasping at it as it flits by on the sward.

And in the middle of this flow of words, and just when Fanny makes a veiled allusion to an elderly “thing,” and the propensity of the person in question, to rob more juvenile young ladies of their beaux—­enter Miss Lavinia—­who asks what thing Miss Fanny speaks of, with a smile upon the austere countenance.

Fanny declines explaining, but blushes instead, and asks Miss Lavinia where she got that darling shawl, which is really a perfect love of a thing; and so, with smiles from Redbud, the conversation continues until dinner-time, when the Squire makes his appearance, and after kissing Miss Redbud, affects to take Miss Fanny by the elbows and bump her head against the ceiling, baby-fashion.  In this attempt, we need not say, the worthy gentleman fails, from the fact, that young ladies of seventeen, are, for some reason, heavier than babies, and are kissed with much more ease, and far less trouble, standing on their feet, than chucked toward the ceiling for that purpose.

Having dined and chatted pleasantly, and told a number of amusing tales for Miss Redbud’s edification—­and against the silent protest and remonstrance of said Miss Lavinia—­the Squire declares that he must go and see to his threshing; and, accordingly, after swearing at Caesar, goes away; and is heard greeting somebody as he departs.

This somebody turns out to be Verty; and the young man’s face blushes with delight at sight of Redbud, whom he runs to, and devours with his glances.  Redbud blushes slightly; but this passes soon, and the kind eyes beam on him softly—­no confusion in them now—­and the small hand is not drawn away from him, but remains in his own.

And Fanny—­amiable Fanny—­knowing all about it, smiles; and Miss Lavinia, staidest of her sex, suspecting something of it, looks grave and dignified, but does not frown; and Verty, with perfect forgetfulness of the presence of these persons, and much carelessness in regard to their opinions, gazes upon Redbud with his dreamy smile, and talks to her.

So the day passes onward, and the shades of evening take away the merry voices—­the bright sunset shining on them as they go.  They must come again without waiting for her to return their visit—­says Redbud smiling—­and the happy laughter which replies to her, makes Apple Orchard chuckle through its farthest chambers, and the portraits on the wall—­bright now in vagrant gleams of crimson sundown—­utter a low, well-bred cachinnation, such as is befitting in the solemn, dignified old cavaliers and ladies, looking from their laces, and hair-powder, and stiff ruffs, upon their little grandchild.