I still held Rachel by the hand; and while Fanny was speaking so earnestly, my other hand, of itself, went creeping around her waist, and drew her close to me.

“You can’t refuse,” I whispered, reposting Fanny’s words; and I knew by the look in her face, and the way her heart beat, that she couldn’t.

But Fanny was one who never liked deep waters.  Seeing that matters were growing earnest, she rose quickly to the surface, and went rattling on, in her lively way.

“Now, come, you two, and sit down in this cozy seat.  You have never had a nice time all to yourselves, to make love in.  Ah! how well you look together!  Just room enough!  Rachel, dear, rest your head on Charley’s shoulder.  You must.  Charley always minds me, and you will have to.  Now, buddy, just drop your head on hers a minute.  Capital!  Your light curls make her hair look more like black velvet than ever!  That will do.  Now I leave you to your fate.  I am rattle-headed, I know, but I hope I have some consideration.”

And so she left us, sitting there in the twilight, in the solemn hush of Saturday night.

The next day we all went to meeting.  It seemed good that I was only to spend Sunday at home.  The quiet, the air of solemnity all around us, harmonized well with the song my own soul was singing.  It was Sabbath-day within, one long, blessed Sabbath, with which the bustle of week-day life would ill accord.  That perfect day I never forgot.  Even now I can scent its roses in the air.  Even now I can almost feel the daisies brushing against my feet, while walking up the narrow lane on our way to church,—­can see the sweetbrier by the red gate, and myself giving Rachel one of its blossoms.

During the rest of the term I had frequent letters from Fanny and Rachel, telling how happy they both were, and what talks they had in the apple-tree,—­telling that Aunt Huldah knew, but wasn’t angry, only just a little at Fanny, for being so sly.  Then came the long summer vacation.  The very day I got home, the solemn young minister called.  Fanny said that he came often, but she thought he would do so no longer, for he would see that it was of no use to be looking at Rachel.  He did, however, and Rachel said he came to look at Fanny.  I bestirred myself, therefore, to become acquainted with him.  His stiffness was only of the manners.  I found him a genial, cultivated, warm-hearted person; in fact, I liked him.  How cold the word sounds now, applied to one whom I afterwards came to love as a brother, whose gentle heart sympathized in all our troubles, whose tears were ever ready to mingle with our own!

He gave us every opportunity of finding him out, joined us in our sunset walks, and in our long sittings under the trees.  I soon came to be well satisfied that he should look at Fanny,—­satisfied that she should watch for his coming, and blush when he came.  I was happy to see the mist she once spoke of slowly gathering before her own eyes, and to know, from the strange quiet which came over her, that some new influence was at work within her heart.