She contrived, however, to pick out my meaning from the midst of the odd words and parts of sentences offered her, and replied that she would let me know that evening.  As she did not invite me to the kitchen, the only thing left me to do was to say good-afternoon and depart.  I don’t know which were the queerest,—­my feelings in going up or in coming down the bank.

When fairly in the road, happening to glance back at the house, I saw that one half of a shutter was open, and that a man was watching me.  He drew back before I could recognize him.  That evening was singing-school.  That was why I went to invite Eleanor in the afternoon.  I was afraid some other fellow would ask her before school was out.

When I got there, I found all the young folks gathered about the stove.  Something was going on.  I pressed in, and found Harry Harlow.  He had been gone a year at sea, and had arrived that forenoon in the stage from Boston.  They were all listening to his wonderful stories.

When school was over, I stepped up close to Eleanor and offered my arm.  She drew back a little, and handed me a small package.  Harry stepped up on the other side.  She took his arm, and they went off slowly together.  I stood still a moment to watch them.  When they turned the corner, I went off alone.  Confounded, wonder-struck, I plunged on through the snow-drifts, seeing, feeling, knowing nothing but the package in my hand.  I found mother sitting by the fire.  She and I lived together,—­she and I, and that was all.  I knew I should find her with her little round table drawn up to the fire, her work laid aside, and the Bible open.  She never went to bed with me out.

I didn’t want to tell her.  I wouldn’t for the world, if I could have had the opening of my package all to myself.  She asked me if I had fastened the back-door.  I sat down by the fire and slowly undid the string.  A silver thimble fell on the bricks.  There was also an artificial flower made of feathers, a copy of verses headed “To a Pair of Bright Eyes,” cut from the county newspaper, a cherry-colored neck-ribbon, a smelling-bottle, and, at the bottom, a note.  I knew well enough what was in the note.

“MR. ALLEN,—­

“I must decline your invitation to the sleigh-ride; and I hope you will not be offended, if I ask you not to go about with me any more.  I think you are a very good young man, and, as an acquaintance, I like you very much.

“Respectfully yours,

“ELEANOR SHERMAN.

“P.S.—­With this note you will find the things you have given me.”

I took the iron tongs which stood near, picked up the thimble and dropped it into the midst of the hot coals, then the flower, then the verses, then the ribbon, then the smelling-bottle, and would gladly have added myself.