On the very evening that General Belch and Abel Newt were sitting together, smoking, taking snuff, sipping wine, and discussing the great principles that should control the action of American legislators and statesmen, Hope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe sat together in their pleasant drawing-room talking of old times.  The fire crackled upon the hearth, and the bright flames flickering through the room brought out every object with fitful distinctness.  The lamp was turned almost out—­for they found it more agreeable to sit in a twilight as they spoke of the days which seemed to both of them to be full of subdued and melancholy light.  They sat side by side; Hope leaning her cheek upon her hand, and gazing thoughtfully into the fire; Mrs. Simcoe turned partly toward her, and occasionally studying her face, as if peculiarly anxious to observe its expression.

It might have happened in many ways that they were speaking of the old times.  The older woman may have intentionally led the conversation in that direction for some ulterior purpose she had in view.  Or what is more likely than that the young woman should constantly draw her friend and guardian to speak of days and people connected with her own life, but passed before her memory had retained them?

After a long interval, as if, when she had once broken her reserve about her life, she must pour out all her experience, Mrs. Simcoe began: 

“When I was twenty years old, living with my father, a poor farmer in the country, there came to pass the summer in the village a gentleman, a good deal older than I. He was handsome, graceful, elegant, fascinating.  I saw him at church, but he did not see me.  Then I met him sometimes upon the road, idly sauntering along, swinging a little cane, and looking as if village life were fatiguing.  He seemed at length to observe me.  One day he bowed.  I said nothing, but hurried on.  When I was a little beyond him I turned my head.  He also was turning and looking at me.

“I was old enough to know why I turned.  Yes, and so was he.  How well I remember the peaceful western light that fell along the fields and touched the trees so kindly!  Every thing was still.  The birds dropped hurrying homeward notes, and the cows were coming in from the pasture.  I was going after our cow, but I leaned a long time on the bars and looked at the new moon timidly showing herself in the west.  Then I looked at my clumsy gown, and thick shoes, and large hands, and thought of the graceful, elegant man, who had not bowed to me insolently.  I imagined that a gentleman used to city life must find our country ways tiresome.  I pitied him, but what could I do?

“Once in the meadows I was following up the brook to find cardinal flowers.  The brook wound through a little wood; and as I was passing, looking closely among the flags and pickerel-wood, I suddenly heard a voice close to me—­’The lobelia blossoms are further on, Miss Jane.’  I knew instantly who it was, and I was conscious of being more scarlet than the flowers I was seeking.