A mug of cider stood near one andiron; leaning against the other was a flat stone,—­the Squire’s “Simon.”  It would soon be needed, for he was already nodding,—­nodding and brightening up,—­nodding and brightening up.  While he slept, the room was still, unless the fire snapped, or a brand fell down.  I said within myself, “This is a pleasant time!  It is good to be here!” That cozy settle, that glowing fire, that good old man, that pure-hearted girl,—­how distinctly do they now rise before me!  It seems such a little, little while ago!  For I feel young.  I like to be with young folks; I like what they like.  Yet deep lines are set in my forehead, the veins stand out upon my hands, and my shadow is the shadow of a stooping old man; and when, from frequent weariness, I rest my head on my hand, the fingers clasp only smoothness, or, at best, but a few scattered locks,—­wisps, I might as well say.  If ever I took pride in anything, it was in my fine head of hair.  Well, what matters it?  Since heart of youth is left me, I’ll never mind the head.

Many writers speak well of age, and it certainly is not without its advantages, meeting everywhere, as it does, with respect and indulgence.  Neither is it, so the books say, without its own peculiar beauty.  An old man leaning upon his staff, with white locks streaming in the wind, they call a picturesque object.  All this may be; still, I have tried both, and must say that my own leaning is towards youth.

Remembering the desire of the poor widow, that Rachel should be “made of,” I continued to walk home with her from evening-school, and to pay her many little attentions, even after I had left the Squire’s.  The widow was right in saying, that, when folks saw that I “set store” by her, they would open their eyes.  They did,—­in wonder that “the schoolmaster should be so attentive to Rachel Lowe!” We were “town-talk.”  I often, in the school-house entry, overheard the scholars joking about us; and once I saw them slyly writing our names together on the bricks of the fireplace.  Everybody was on the look-out for what might happen.

One evening, in school-time, I stood a long while leaning over her desk, working out for her a difficult sum.  On observing me change my position, to rest myself, she, very naturally, and almost unconsciously, moved for me to sit down, and I took a seat beside her, going on, all the while, with my ciphering.  Happening to look up suddenly, I saw that half the school were watching us.  I kept my seat with calmness, though I knew I turned red.  I glanced at Rachel, and really pitied her, she looked so distressed, so conscious.  That night she hurried home before I had put away my books, and for several evenings did not appear.

But if she could do without me, I could not do without her.  I missed her face there at the end of the back-seat.  I missed the walk home with her:  I had grown to depend upon it.  She was just getting willing to talk, and in what she said and the way she said it, in the tone of her voice and in her whole manner, there was something to me extremely bewitching.  She had been strangely brought up, was familiar with books, but, having received no regular education, fancied herself ignorant, and different from everybody.