Mary had been told of her beauty since her childhood, notwithstanding her mother had essayed all that transparent, respectable hoaxing by which discreet mothers endeavor to blind their daughters to the real facts of such cases; but, in her own calm, balanced mind, she had accepted what she was so often told, as a quiet verity; and therefore she neither fluttered nor blushed on this occasion, but regarded her auditor with a pleased attention, as one who was saying obliging things.

“Cool!” he thought to himself,—­“hum!—­a little rustic belle, I suppose,—­well aware of her own value;—­rather piquant, on my word!”

“Shall we walk in the garden?” he said,—­“the evening is so beautiful.”

They passed out of the door and began promenading the long walk.  At the bottom of the alley he stopped, and, turning, looked up the vista of box ending in the brilliantly-lighted rooms, where gentlemen, with powdered heads, lace ruffles, and glittering knee-buckles, were handing ladies in stiff brocades, whose towering heads were shaded by ostrich-feathers and sparkling with gems.

“Quite court-like, on my word!” he said.  “Tell me, do you often have such brilliant entertainments as this?”

“I suppose they do,” said Mary.  “I never was at one before, but I sometimes hear of them.”

“And you do not attend?” said the gentleman, with an accent which made the inquiry a marked compliment.

“No, I do not,” said Mary; “these people generally do not visit us.”

“What a pity,” he said, “that their parties should want such an ornament!  But,” he added, “this night must make them aware of their oversight;—­if you are not always in society after this, it will surely not be for want of solicitation.”

“You are very kind to think so,” replied Mary; “but even if it were to be so, I should not see my way clear to be often in such scenes as this.”

Her companion looked at her with a glance a little doubtful and amused, and said, “And pray, why not? if the inquiry be not too presumptuous.”

“Because,” said Mary, “I should be afraid they would take too much time and thought, and lead me to forget the great object of life.”

The simple gravity with which this was said, as if quite assured of the sympathy of her auditor, appeared to give him a secret amusement.  His bright, dark eyes danced, as if he suppressed some quick repartee; but, drooping his long lashes deferentially, he said, in gentle tones, “I should like to know what so beautiful a young lady considers the great object of life.”

Mary answered reverentially, in those words then familiar from infancy to every Puritan child, “To glorify God, and enjoy Him forever.”

“Really?” he said, looking straight into her eyes with that penetrating glance with which he was accustomed to take the gauge of every one with whom he conversed.

“Is it not?” said Mary, looking back, calm and firm, into the sparkling, restless depths of his eyes.