The book-dusting came to as abrupt a close as the reading of Lancelot.  Susan went straight to her room, dried her tears so as to write in a fair hand, but had to stop every few lines and take a turn at the “dust-layers,” as Mrs. Clymer Ketchum’s friend used to call the fountains of sensibility.  It would seem like betraying Susan’s confidence to reveal the contents of this letter, but the reader may be assured that it was simple and sincere and very sweetly written, without the slightest allusion to any other young man, whether of the poetical or cheaper human varieties.

It was not long before Susan received a reply from Clement Lindsay.  It was as kind and generous and noble as she could have asked.  It was affectionate, as a very amiable brother’s letter might be, and candidly appreciative of the reasons Susan had assigned for her proposal.  He gave her back her freedom, not that he should cease to feel an interest in her, always.  He accepted his own release, not that he would ever think she could be indifferent to his future fortunes.  And within a very brief period of time after sending his answer to Susan Posey, whether he wished to see her in person, or whether he had some other motive, he had packed his trunk, and made his excuses for an absence of uncertain length at the studio, and was on his way to Oxbow Village.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Just as you expected.

The spring of 1861 had now arrived,—­that eventful spring which was to lift the curtain and show the first scene of the first act in the mighty drama which fixed the eyes of mankind during four bloody years.  The little schemes of little people were going on in all our cities and villages without thought of the fearful convulsion which was soon coming to shatter the hopes and cloud the prospects of millions.  Our little Oxbow Village, which held itself by no means the least of human centres, was the scene of its own commotions, as intense and exciting to those concerned as if the destiny of the nation had been involved in them.

Mr. Clement Lindsay appeared suddenly in that important locality, and repaired to his accustomed quarters at the house of Deacon Rumrill.  That worthy person received him with a certain gravity of manner, caused by his recollections of the involuntary transgression into which Mr. Lindsay had led him by his present of “Ivanhoe.”—­He was, on the whole, glad to see him, for his finances were not yet wholly recovered from the injury inflicted on them by the devouring element.  But he could not forget that his boarder had betrayed him into a breach of the fourth commandment, and that the strict eyes of his clergyman had detected him in the very commission of the offence.  He had no sooner seen Mr. Clement comfortably installed, therefore, than he presented himself at the door of his chamber with the book, enveloped in strong paper and very securely tied round with a stout string.