low laugh startled Debby, though it was smothered like the babes in the Tower; and, turning, she beheld the trespasser scarlet with confusion, and sobered with a tardy sense of his transgression.  Debby was not a starched young lady of the “prune and prism” school, but a frank, free-hearted little body, quick to read the sincerity of others, and to take looks and words at their real value.  Dickens was her idol; and for his sake she could have forgiven a greater offence than this.  The stranger’s contrite countenance and respectful apology won her good-will at once; and with a finer courtesy than any Aunt Pen would have taught, she smilingly bowed her pardon, and, taking another book from her basket, opened it, saying, pleasantly,—­

“Here is the first volume, if you like it, Sir.  I can recommend it as an invaluable consolation for the discomforts of a summer day’s journey, and it is heartily at your service.”

As much surprised as gratified, the gentleman accepted the book, and retired behind it with the sudden discovery that wrong-doing has its compensation in the pleasurable sensation of being forgiven.  Stolen delights are well known to be specially saccharine; and much as this pardoned sinner loved books, it seemed to him that the interest of the story flagged, and that the enjoyment of reading was much enhanced by the proximity of a gray bonnet and a girlish profile.  But Dickens soon proved more powerful than Debby, and she was forgotten, till, pausing to turn a leaf, the young man met her shy glance, as she asked, with the pleased expression of a child who has shared an apple with a playmate,—­

“Is it good?”

“Oh, very!”—­and the man looked as honestly grateful for the book as the boy would have done for the apple.

Only five words in the conversation, but Aunt Pen woke, as if the watchful spirit of propriety had roused her to pluck her charge from the precipice on which she stood.

“Dora, I’m astonished at you!  Speaking to strangers in that free manner is a most unladylike thing.  How came you to forget what I have told you over and over again about a proper reserve?”

The energetic whisper reached the gentleman’s ear, and he expected to be annihilated with a look when his offence was revealed; but he was spared that ordeal, for the young voice answered, softly,—­

“Don’t faint, Aunt Pen; I only did as I’d be done by; for I had two books, and the poor man looked so hungry for something to read that I couldn’t resist sharing my ‘goodies.’  He will see that I’m a countrified little thing in spite of my fine feathers, and won’t be shocked at my want of rigidity and frigidity; so don’t look dismal, and I’ll be prim and proper all the rest of the way,—­if I don’t forget it.”

“I wonder who he is; may belong to some of our first families, and in that case it might be worth while to exert ourselves, you know.  Did you learn his name, Dora?” whispered the elder lady.