But, after all, we can’t go right against our natures; and it is not the nature of man to look upon the youthful and the elderly female exactly in the same light.  The feelings with which they are approached are essentially different, whether he who approaches be seventeen or seventy.  Thus, in conversing with the old lady Wood, I was quite at my ease.  When the invalid began to get well, I often carried her nice little messes, which my mother prepared, and was generally lucky enough to find Mrs. Wood,—­for I always went in at the back-door.  She asked me, one day, if I could lend Ellen something to read,—­for she was then just about well enough to amuse herself with a book, but not strong enough to work.  Now I always had (so my mother said) a kind and obliging way with me, and had, besides, a great pride in my library.  I was delighted that anybody wanted to read my books, and hurried home to make a selection.

That very afternoon, I took over an armful.  Nobody was in the kitchen; so I sat down to wait.  The door of the little keeping-room was open, and I knew by their voices that some great discussion was going on.  I tipped over a cricket to make them aware of my presence.  The door was opened wide, and Mrs. Wood appeared.

“Now here is Mr. Allen,” she exclaimed.  “Let us get his opinion.”

Then she took me in, where they were holding solemn council over a straw bonnet and various colored ribbons.  She introduced me to Ellen, whom I had never before met.  She was a merry-looking, black-eyed maiden, and the roses were already blooming out again upon her cheeks.  She was very young,—­not more than fifteen or sixteen.

“Now, Mr. Allen,” said Jane, (she was not so bashful to me as I was to her,) “let us have your opinion upon these trimmings.  Remember, though, that pink and blue can’t go together.”

She turned her face full upon me, and I looked straight into her eyes.  I really believe it was the first time I had done so.  They were beautifully blue, with long dark lashes.  She had been a little excited by the discussion, and her cheeks were like two roses.  A strange boldness came over me.

“How can I remember that,” I answered, “when I see in your face that pink and blue do go together?”

Never, till within a few years, could I account for this sudden boldness.  I have now no doubt that I spoke by what spiritualists call “impression.”  We were all surprised, and I most of all.  Jane laughed, and looked pinker than before.  She would as soon have expected a compliment from the town pump, and I felt it.

I knew nothing of bonnets, but I had studied painting, and was a judge of colors.  I made a selection, and could see that they were again surprised at my good taste.  I then offered my books, spoke of the different authors, turned to what I thought might particularly please them, and, before I knew it, was all aglow with the unusual excitement of conversation.  I saw that they were not without cultivation, and that they had a quick appreciation of literary merit.