I dare say it seems to you, reader, that we have travelled, in our story, over a long space of time, because we have talked so much and introduced so many personages and reflections; but, in fact, it is only Wednesday week since James sailed, and the eggs which were brooded when he went are still unhatched in the nest, and the apple-tree has changed only in having now a majority of white blossoms over the pink buds.

This one week has been a critical one to our Mary;—­in it, she has made the great discovery, that she loves; and she has made her first step into the gay world; and now she comes back to her retirement to think the whole over by herself.  It seems a dream to her, that she who sits there now reeling yarn in her stuff petticoat and white short-gown is the same who took the arm of Colonel Burr amid the blaze of wax-lights and the sweep of silks and rustle of plumes.  She wonders dreamily as she remembers the dark, lovely face of the foreign Madame, so brilliant under its powdered hair and flashing gems,—­the sweet, foreign accents of the voice,—­the tiny, jewelled fan, with its glancing pictures and sparkling tassels, whence exhaled vague and floating perfumes; then she hears again that manly voice, softened to tones so seductive, and sees those fine eyes with the tears in them, and wonders within herself that he could have kissed her hand with such veneration, as if she had been a throned queen.

But here the sound of busy, pattering footsteps is heard on the old, creaking staircase, and soon the bows of Miss Prissy’s bonnet part the folds of the boudoir drapery, and her merry, May-day face looks in.

“Well, really, Mary, how do you do, to be sure?  You wonder to see me, don’t you? but I thought I must just run in, a minute, on my way up to Miss Marvyn’s.  I promised her at least a half-a-day, though I didn’t see how I was to spare it,—­for I tell Miss Wilcox I just run and run till it does seem as if my feet would drop off; but I thought I must just step in to say, that I, for my part, do admire the Doctor more than ever, and I was telling your mother we mus’n’t mind too much what people say.  I ’most made Miss Wilcox angry, standing up for him; but I put it right to her, and says I, ’Miss Wilcox, you know folks must speak what’s on their mind,—­in particular, ministers must; and you know, Miss Wilcox,’ I says, ’that the Doctor is a good man, and lives up to his teaching, if anybody in this world does, and gives away every dollar he can lay hands on to those poor negroes, and works over ’em and teaches ‘em as if they were his brothers’; and says I, ’Miss Wilcox, you know I don’t spare myself, night nor day, trying to please you and do your work to give satisfaction; but when it comes to my conscience,’ says I, ’Miss Wilcox, you know I always must speak out, and if it was the last word I had to say on my dying bed, I’d say that I think the Doctor is right.’  Why! what things he told about the slave-ships, and