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GILLIAN.

because I ask questions—it’s all for your own < good, Sarah.’

She began to sob like a baby.

I know—I know it is; but don’t say any- thing more about that letter; it’s given me trouble enough without that, I’m sure.’

“I felt sorry for the poor gal, but yet it didn’t seem right to let her go on writing to a dashing young feller in secret. ‘If it goes so agin the grain to talk with me, promise one thing, and I’ll be content; just tell sister Hetty all about it. She’s a suber, steady gal, and won’t sanc- tion anything that has danger init; tell her about the letter, and I won’t interfere.’

“She looked up, looking earnestly into my face; at last her eyes began to sparkle, and she laughed.

“Hetty?’ says she; ‘you will leave it with Hetty?’

Yes, I can trust Hetty; only tell her all about it, fair and square—promise that.’

“Oh, yes, I promise that!’ says she, laughing again, though her eyes filled with tears; ‘but you must make me a promise also.’

Well, what is it?’ says I, laughing too—for I was relieved at the thought of trusting the affair with our Hetty.

“That you won’t mention the letter to any living soul—not even to your wife.’

Well, I promise that.’

Nor mother; and above all, not to father,’ she went on, earnestly.

“I thought it over a minute, and made the promise.

“Nor—nor to Hetty either,’ says she, look- ing at me as if afraid that I would refuse.

"Well,’ says I, ‘pledge me your sacred word of honor that you will tell Hetty everything, and I will not mention the subject again. She will} keep you straight, I’m sure of that.

“I pledge my sacred word of honor,’ says she, gravely, while the tears swam in her eyes. That’s a good gal,’ says I, reaching out one hand. ‘There, now, give me a kiss, and jump; on behind.’

“She sprang to the top of the fence, puckered up her lips till they glowed like an apple blossom, and gave me an old-fashioned kiss, that went straight to the heart.

“There, you old darling,’ says she, throwing her shawl across the horse, springing up behind me as light as a bird, and clasping my waist with an affections hug, ‘there, you blessed old dar- : snow-balls, till the rooms were scented like ling, we’re ‘again; so now strike into a garden. trot as quick as you like, but don’t tell anybody that I’ve been farther than the Spring Meadow, or they’ll torment me to death with questions.’

“I promised to keep her secret, and put the horse on his metal. He was used to carrying double, and went off like an arrow.

‘Hetty stood on the stoop as we rode up, looking down the road. She turned and went into the house without speaking a word, and Sarah followed her, looking down-hearted enough. I suppose she hated to tell about the letter.

‘‘Well, about a week after this, an answer came to the letter in Bentley’s hand-writing. | had told Sarah not to inquire for it, for the manner of the postmaster didn’t quite please me. I was right; for when the letter came, he made a great mystery about it, and wanted to senda private message; but I cut the matter short, asked for the letter, and carried it off. Sarah trembled like a leaf when I gave it to her—tore it open, then put it into her bosom, blushing and turning white every instant, while Hetty stood looking at her, still as death.

‘Remember your promise,’ says I to Sarah.

‘She took the letter from her bosom, and going up to Hetty, handed it to her, though she had not read a word herself.

“There,’ says she, flushing red, and turning her face full on mine, ‘will that satisfy you?’

‘Hetty took the letter without a word, and seemed to read it steadily, but she did not turn over the page, and after setting still awhile, got up and went into the house.

“Sarah followed her, and just as I was pre- paring to go away again, came to the stoop smiling, quite out of breath.

‘There, it is all right,’ she whispered. ‘Next week Mr. Bentley will be here with his cousin— another Mr. Bentley—and then you will know what he has been writing about.’

“I felt relieved by her words, and rode over to the deacon’s, happier than I had been fora week.

“I saw but little of the gals after that, for they were too busy preparing the house for visitors; everything was at sixes and sevens— carpets taken up—curtains hung—counterpanes whitened—and ceilings whitewashed on the day that young Bentley and his cousin was expected; everything was in order, and the old homestead looked cheerful as a spring morning. The fire-places were full of hemlock and pine-tops; and  at every corner you found an old mug or pitcher   crowded full of apple-blossoms, lilacs, and snow-balls, till the rooms were scented like a garden.

“The gals looked as purty as picters that afternoon, in their white muslin dresses, bowed up in front with blue ribbons; but they seemed