I was used to Laura’s impetuousness; so I only smiled and said, “Good morning.”

“Oh!” said Laura, with a long breath, “I have got something to tell you, Sue.”

“That’s nice,” said I; “news is worth double here in the country; tell me slowly, to prolong the pleasure.”

“You must guess first.  I want to have you try your powers for once; guess, do!”

“Mr. Lincoln defeated?”

“Oh, no,—­at least not that I know of; all the returns from this State are not in yet, of course not from the others; besides, do you think I’d make such a fuss about politics?”

“You might,” said I, thinking of all the beautiful and brilliant women that in other countries and other times had made “fuss” more potent than Laura’s about politics.

“But I shouldn’t,” retorted she.

“Then there is a new novel out?”

“No!” (with great indignation).

“Or the parish have resolved to settle Mr. Hermann?”

“How stupid you are, Sue!  Everybody knew that yesterday.”

“But I am not everybody.”

“I shall have to help you, I see,” sighed Laura, half provoked.  “Somebody is going to be married.”

“Mademoiselle, the great Mademoiselle!”

Laura stared at me.  I ought to have remembered she was eighteen, and not likely to have read Sevigne.  I began more seriously, laying down my seam.

“Is it anybody I know, Laura?”

“Of course, or you wouldn’t care about it, and it would be no fun to tell you.”

“Is it you?”

Laura grew indignant.

“Do you think I should bounce in, in this way, to tell you I was engaged?”

“Why not? shouldn’t you be happy about it?”

“Well, if I were, I should”——­

Laura dropped her beautiful eyes and colored.

  “The thoughts of youth are long, long
  thoughts.”

I am sure she felt as much strange, sweet shyness sealing her girlish lips at that moment as when she came, very slowly and silently, a year after, to tell me she was engaged to Mr. Hermann.  I had to smile and sigh both.

“Tell me, then, Laura; for I cannot guess.”

“I’ll tell you the gentleman’s name, and perhaps you can guess the lady’s then:  it is Frank Addison.”

“Frank Addison!” echoed I, in surprise; for this young man was one I knew and loved well, and I could not think who in our quiet village had sufficient attraction for his fastidious taste.

He was certainly worth marrying, though he had some faults, being as proud as was endurable, as shy as a child, and altogether endowed with a full appreciation, to say the least, of his own charms and merits:  but he was sincere, and loyal, and tender; well cultivated, yet not priggish or pedantic; brave, well-bred, and high-principled; handsome besides.  I knew him thoroughly; I had held him on my lap, fed him with sugar-plums, soothed his child-sorrows, and scolded