“Hearts and tongues!” exclaimed the Judge.  “The former belong to the ladies’ department; the latter to mine.  Yet, I fancy I know something about hearts, too; and yours, Thomas, I am sure, is adequate security for your words.”

“You are very good, sir,” said Pownal, “and I can only wish that all participated in your undeserved partiality.”

Anne was vexed with herself for having spoken in so trifling a manner.  The frigid politeness of her brother’s speech, too, had not escaped her notice.  It seemed to her now, that she had been wantonly rude.  She hastened, therefore, to repair the fault.

“Mr. Pownal mistakes,” she said, “if he thinks me unmindful of the pleasant hours his unfortunate accident procured us.  And I am sure I should be a monster of ingratitude,” she added smiling, and relapsing, in spite of herself, into the very trifling she had condemned, “if I did not remember, with lively emotions, his skill at holding silk and yarn.”

“Well, whenever you want a reel, send for me,” said Pownal, “and I shall only be too happy to come.”

“Take care, my good fellow,” said the Judge, “she does not wind you up, too.”

“I should be too happy—­” began Pownal.

“For shame, father,” cried Anne, laughing, and rising from the table.  “The young men have quite spoiled you, of late.  Good-bye; you have finished your last cup of coffee, and have no longer need of me.”  So saying, she hastened out of the room.

It was with mutual regret that the parting took place, and not without many promises required of the young man that he would frequently visit the family.  His landlady, Mrs. Brown, was, as usual, all smiles, and welcomes, and congratulations on his return; notwithstanding which, it was with a sense of loneliness, amounting almost to desolation, that her lodger found himself installed again in his apartments.  It seemed like passing out of the golden sunshine into a gloomy cavern.  Was it possible that two short weeks could have produced so great a change in him?  When he thought upon the cause, the conscious blush revealed its nature.  “No,” said he, aloud, as he paced backwards and forwards in the room, “this is folly and madness.  For me, a humble clerk, to connect myself, even in imagination, with her!  What have I to offer her?  Or what even in prospect?  I have been sailing in the clouds, and my tattered balloon is precipitated to the earth—­I have been dreaming.  How delicious was the dream!  But I am now awake, and will never expose myself to the mortification of ——.  I have been foolish.  No, not so; for, who could come within the range of such fascinations, and not be charmed?  But what, after all, are they to me?  I will resist this weakness, and learn to regard her as only any other valued acquaintance; for, alas! she can never be more.”