“Godfrey, I understand you.  You need say no more on that subject.  You know how painfully alive I am to the obligations I owe to my uncle, and it is ungenerous to take such an opportunity of reminding me of them.  The debt, I hope, will one day be repaid.”

He rose to take leave.  A pleading look from Juliet made him abandon his intention.  “Sit down,” said Juliet, in a persuasive voice, “I am sure your cousin meant no offence.  Delicacy of mind,” she added, in a very low tone, meant only for his ear, “is not always an inherent quality; we should pity and forgive those who are destitute of it.”

“I will do any thing to please you,” returned Anthony; and Godfrey, pale with disappointed malice, saw him resume his seat.

“I have provided a little treat of strawberries and cream,” continued Juliet; “they are the first of the season, and were presented to me this morning by that strangely-interesting girl, Mary Mathews.  How I regret that her father’s injudicious method of bringing her up should so completely have spoiled a girl whom Nature formed to be an ornament to her humble station.”

“Mary is a beautiful girl,” said Anthony, “and has a mind of no ordinary cast.  Her failings are the result of the peculiar circumstances in which she has been placed.  With such a kind monitress as Miss Whitmore to counsel her, I feel assured that she might soon be persuaded to forsake her masculine employments, and feel a relish for more feminine pursuits.”

He spoke with much earnestness, until perceiving that Juliet regarded him with a peculiarly searching glance, he colored, hesitated, became embarrassed, and, finally, stopped speaking.

“When I first saw Mary Mathews, some months ago,” said Juliet, “she was very pretty, and as blithe as a bird; I used to envy the exuberance of her animal spirits, whenever I passed her little garden, and heard her singing.  For the last few weeks, a melancholy change has taken place in the poor girl’s appearance, which gives me pain to witness.  Her cheek has lost its bloom; her step its elasticity; her dress is neglected; and the garden in which she worked and sang so merrily, and in which she took so much delight, is overrun with weeds.  Her whole appearance indicates the most poignant grief.  When I questioned her to-day upon the subject, she answered me with a burst of tears—­tears, which seem so unnatural for one of her disposition to shed.  Perhaps, Mr. Anthony,” she continued, with an air of increasing interest, “you can tell me something of the history of this young girl—­as she is one of your uncle’s tenants—­which may lead me to discover the cause of her grief?”

Before Anthony could reply to this somewhat embarrassing question, he was called upon by his uncle, who was playing chess with the old Captain, to decide some important problem in the game; and Godfrey, who had been a painfully observant listener to their conversation, glided into his vacant seat.