If Rachel had been beautiful in her rusty black dress, what could I say of her now?  She wore a gown of pink gingham, made after the fashion of the day, short-waisted and low in the neck, with a—­finishing-off—­of white muslin or lace, edged with a tucker.  There was color in her cheeks, and added to this was the glow from the roses, and from the pink gown.  When she smiled, her mouth was beautiful.  I had not been used to seeing her smile.  As she threw her arm over the back of the seat, in turning her face towards Fanny, laughing as I had never before seen her laugh, I was so bewildered by the beauty of her face and figure that I forgot my caution, and made a hasty step towards her.  The grass was soft, but they heard the noise and turned full upon me.

“Why, Charley! you dear boy!” exclaimed Fanny; and she came running up, throwing both arms around my neck.

I kissed her; and then she drew me towards Rachel, who stood, like one in despair, trembling, blushing, almost weeping.

“Charley,” cried Fanny, roguishly, “kiss me, kiss my friend.  This is my friend.  Won’t you kiss her, too?”

“With pleasure,” I answered, with too much of deep feeling to laugh.  “Rachel, I always mind Fanny; you will not, then, think it strange, if I”—­

I cannot finish the sentence on paper, because it had not a grammatical ending.  I kept hold of Rachel’s hand, thus adding to her distress,—­telling her, all the while, how good it was to see her, and to see her there.  She tried to withdraw her hand, tried to speak, tried to keep silent, and at last burst out with,—­

“Oh, Fanny! do tell him that I didn’t know,—­that I had no idea,—­that you asked me,—­that you never told me!”

“Charley,” said Fanny, laughing, “did you ever know me to tell a lie?  To my certain knowledge, this young woman came here to board, expecting to find nothing worse than Aunt Huldah and myself; and it was at my suggestion she came.”

Then taking Rachel by the hand, she said,—­

“Be easy, my dear child.  You need not feel so pained.  Charley loves you, and you love him, and we all love one another.  Charley is a dear boy, and you mustn’t plague him.  I will tell you all about it, dear.  When Charley came home, and I made him tell me about you, I know, from what he said, that you were—­But I won’t praise you to your face.  Hasn’t Charley seen plenty of girls, handsome girls, educated, accomplished?  And haven’t I watched him these years, to see when Love would catch him?  Haven’t I searched his face, time and again, for signs of love at his heart?  When he came home in the spring, I saw that his time had come, and trouble with it.  I made him tell, for I would not send him away with a grief shut up in his heart.  Then I contrived this plan of seeing and knowing you, dear.  I knew that Charley would never have been so deeply moved, had you not been worthy; but, my dear child, I never thought of loving you so!  I shall be so proud, if you will be my sister,—­for you will, I know.  You can’t refuse such a dear boy as Charley!”