“Sam!” began Miss Sarah.

“Now, Sarah, you stop!” cried he.  “I’ve begun, and now I’ll tell.  At first I teased her for fun.  Then I watched her to see how she bore everything so well.  And while I was watching, I—­before I knew it—­I began to love her.  You may talk, if you want to; but I shall never be anybody, if she won’t have me!”

“Stage coming!” said a little boy, running in.

I took Rachel by the hand, and drew her with me into the porch.

“Don’t promise to marry him!” cried Sam, as we passed through the door-way.  “But she will,—­I know she will!” he added, as I closed the door.

He spoke in a pitiful tone, and his voice trembled.  I was surprised that he showed so much feeling.

“Rachel,” said I, as soon as we were alone, “won’t you answer me now?  You must know how much I love you.  Will you be my wife?”

“Oh, Mr. Browne, I cannot!  I cannot!” she whispered.

I was silent, for my fears came uppermost.  Pressing one hand to my forehead, I thought of a thousand things in a moment.  Nothing seemed more probable than that she should already have a lover across the sea.  Seeing my distress, she spoke.

“Don’t think, Mr. Browne,” she began, earnestly, “that it is because I do not”—­

There she stopped.  I gazed eagerly in her face.  It was strangely agitated.  I should hardly have known my calm, white-faced Rachel.  Just then I heard the stage stop at the bars.

“Oh, Rachel!” I cried, “go on!  What mustn’t I think?  What shall I think?”

“Don’t think me ungrateful,—­you have been so kind,” she said, softly.

“And is that all?” I asked.

“Stage ready!” called out the driver.

I opened the door, to show that I was coming; then, taking her hand, I said,—­

“Good bye, Rachel!  And so—­you can’t love me!”

An expression of pain crossed her face.  She leaned against the wall, but did not speak.

“Hurry up there!” shouted the driver.

“Yes, yes!” I cried, impatiently.

“If you can’t speak,” I went on to Rachel, “press my hand, if you can love me,—­now, for I am going.  Good bye!”

She did not press my hand, and I could not go.

“You can’t say you love me,” I cried; “then say you don’t.  Anything rather than this doubt.”

“Oh, Mr. Browne!” she replied, at last, “I can’t say anything—­but—­good bye!”

“Good bye, then,” I said, sadly.  “But shall you still live here?”

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, earnestly; “you can’t think that I”—­

Here she stopped, and glanced towards the kitchen-door.

“No,” said I, “I won’t think it.  But where will you stay?”

“With Mrs. James.  You know her.  I have already spoken with her.”

The tramp of the driver was now heard, approaching.

“Any passenger here bound for Boston?”