“It is too bad,” she cried, “to compare you to a wild animal.  Forgive and forget my impertinence.  I have been reading a novel,” and as, she said so she took a book from the table, “by an American author, which interests me greatly.  Have you seen it?”

Pownal took the book into his hands.  It was one of Charles Brockden Brown’s.

“I read it some years ago,” he said; “and I remember it made a great impression upon me at the time.  It appears to me to be written with wonderful power of enchaining the attention.  I could not lay it down until it was finished.”

“Exactly as I was affected,” said Anne.

“Yet I wonder that one so lively and merry as Miss Bernard should be pleased with such a book.  The subjects of Brown’s novels are all gloomy.  His imagination seems at home only in sombre scenes.  His is the fascination of horror.”

“I wonder at it myself.  But it shows the ability of the writer, in being able to affect as thoughtless a person as I am.”

“Not thoughtless.  No one would say that of you but yourself.  It is, perhaps, because of your gaiety—­on account of the contrast.  The sunshine loves to light up dark places.”

“Very prettily expressed.  Really, if you go on improving, we must have you appointed valentine-manufacturer-general for the town of Hillsdale.”

“I suspect the valentines would all be addressed to one person.”

“Then I shall oppose your appointment.  But let that pass for the present.  You were telling me why I liked Brown’s novels.”

“I am not so presumptuous.  I was only guessing.  It is the Yankee’s privilege.  The world concedes it to us.  I suggest then that your mind wanders through those dark scenes with an interest like that with which a traveller contemplates a strange country.  And may they ever remain a strange region to you.  May you ever continue to be what you are now, a bright being, at whose approach sorrow and sadness fly away.”

The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the Judge and Mrs. Bernard, on their return from some neighborly call.  Anne received the bonnet and shawl from her mother, who was evidently accustomed to such attentions, nor had the young lady ever appeared more beautiful in the eyes of the young man, than when he saw her rendering those little services of filial respect and affection.  “She deserves,” he said to himself, “the richest gifts of Providence.  One so bright, so pure, so innocent, must be a favorite of the angels.”

These were lover’s thoughts, and our readers at the remembrance of youthful dreams and fancies will pardon their extravagance.  They come at only one period of life, and oh, how quickly do they fly, leaving behind a trail of light which may, indeed, be obscured, but never quite extinguished.

Pownal informed the Judge of his intended departure, and, as usual, received from him and Mrs. Bernard some commissions to execute on their account.  That of the former was for some books, while his wife’s, we are compelled to say, however undignified it may sound, was for nothing more important than the last fashionable French bonnet.  But let us add that she took not more pleasure in wearing a becoming head-dress (and what new fashion is not becoming?) than he in seeing her handsome face in its adornment.