As they were descending the long hill which led to the river bridge, Mr. Lincoln’s carriage passed them, and Jenny, who was inside, seized the reins, saying, “Please, pa, stop and let them ride—­there’s nobody but Rose and me in here, and it is so hot and so far.”

Mr. Lincoln might possibly have complied with his daughter’s request, had not Rose chirrupped to the spirited horses, and said, “Don’t, father, for mercy’s sake! ask those paupers to ride.”

So the carriage dashed on, but Mary forgot the long walk by remembering the glance of affection which Jenny gave her as she looked back from the window.  Sal seemed unusually silent, and even forgot to take off her shoes and stockings when she reached the river bridge.  Mary saw there was something weighing upon her mind, but she forbore asking any questions, knowing that Sal would in her own good time make her thoughts known.  They had nearly reached home, when Sal suddenly turned aside, and seating herself upon a rock under a white beech-tree, said, “Miss Howard, I’ve been thinking what a splendid minister was spoiled when they put dresses on me!  Oh how hard I had to hold myself to-day to keep from extemporizing to the congregation.  I reckon there wouldn’t have been quite so many nodding as there were.”

In the excitement of the moment Sal arose, and throwing out her eyes, gesticulated in a manner rather alarming to Mary, who had never before seen so wild a look in the crazy woman’s eyes.  Soon, however, her mood changed, and resuming her seat, she continued in a milder tone, “Did you ever hear that I was an authoress?”

“An authoress!” repeated Mary—­“an authoress!  Why no; are you?”

“To be sure I am,” answered Sal.  “What’s to hinder.  Haven’t I told you repeatedly, that I once possessed an unusually large amount of judgment; and this, added to my knowledge of grammar, and uncommon powers of imagination, enabled me to produce a work which, but for an unaccountable freak of the publisher, would have rendered my name immortal.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mary, and Sally continued:  “You see, I wrote about six hundred pages of foolscap, which the publisher to whom it was sent for examination was impolite enough to return, together with a note, containing, as I suppose, his reasons for rejection; but if he thinks I read it he’s mistaken.  I merely glanced at the words, ‘Dear Madam—­We regret—­’ and then threw it aside.  It was a terrible disappointment, and came near turning my brain; but there are other publishing houses in the world, and one of these days I shall astonish mankind.  But come, we must hasten on, or the gormandizers will eat up those custard pies which I found in the cellar with the brass-kettle covered over them.”

Accordingly they started for home, but found, as Sal had predicted, that supper was over and the pies all gone.  By a little dexterous management, however, she managed to find half of one, which Miss Grundy had tucked away under an empty candle-box for her own future eating.