At the lowest skirt of this little valley, protected, by a few spreading hawthorns, stood a small white farm-house, more immediately shaded by a close row of elder or boor-tree, which hung over one of the gables, and covered the garden gate, together with a neat grassy seat, that was built between the gate, and the gable.  It was impervious to sun and rain:  one of those pretty spots which present themselves on the road-side in the country, and strike the eye with a pleasing notion of comfort; especially when, during a summer shower, the cocks and hens of the little yard are seen by the traveller who takes shelter under it, huddled up in silence, the white dust quite dry, whilst the heavy shower patters upon the leaves above, and upon the dark drenched road beside him.

Under the shade of this sat an interesting girl, aged about seventeen, named Susan Connor.  She was slender, and not above the middle size; but certainly, in point of form and feature, such as might be called beautiful—­handsome she unquestionably was; but be that as it may, with this rustic beauty the object of Denis’s stolen visit was connected.  She sat knitting under the shade of elder which we have described, a sweet picture of innocence and candor.  Our hero’s face, as he approached her, was certainly a fine study for any one who wished to embody the sad and the ludicrous.  Desperate was the conflict between pedantry and feeling which he experienced.  His manner appeared more pompous and affected than ever; yet was there blended with the flush of approaching triumph as a candidate, such woe-begone shades of distress flitting occasionally across his feature, as rendered his countenance inscrutably enigmatical.

When the usual interchange of preliminary conversation had passed, Denis took his seat beside her on the grassy bench; and after looking in several directions, and giving half a dozen hems, he thus accosted her:—­

“Susan, cream of my affections, I may venture to conjecture that the fact, or factum, of my being the subject of fama clamosa today, has not yet reached your ears?”

“Now, Denis, you are at your deep larning from the books again.  Can’t you keep your reading for them that undherstands it, an’ not be spakin’ so Englified to a simple girl like me?”

“There is logic in that same, however.  Do you know, Susan, I have often thought that, provided always you had resaved proper instruction, you would have made a first-rate classical scholar.”

“So you tould me, Denis, the Sunday we exchanged the promise.  But sure when you get me, I can larn it.  Won’t you tache me, Denis?”

She turned her laughing eyes archly at him as she spoke, with a look of joy and affection:  it was a look, indeed, that staggered for the moment every ecclesiastical resolution within him.  He returned her glance, and ran over the features of her pure and beautiful countenance for some minutes; then, placing his open hand upon his eyes, he seemed buried in reflection.  At length he addressed her:—­