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“But now, Natty,” said Miss Hodges, in a voice more masculine than her looks, “you understand the conditions–If I give you my hand, and make you my husband, it is upon condition that you never contradict any of my opinions: do you promise me that?”

“Yea, verily,” replied Nat.

“And you promise to leave me entirely at liberty to act, as well as to think, in all things as my own independent understanding shall suggest?”

“Yea, verily,” was the man’s response.

“And you will be guided by me in all things?”

“Yea, verily.”

“And you will love and admire me all your life, as much as you do now?”

“Yea, verily.”

“Swear,” said the unconscionable woman.

“Nay, verily,” replied the meekest of men, “I cannot swear, my Rachel, being a quaker; but I will affirm.”

“Swear, swear,” cried the lady, in an imperious tone, “or I will never be your Araminta.”

“I swear,” said Nat Gazabo, in a timid voice.

“Then, Natty, I consent to be Mrs. Hodges Gazabo. Only remember always to call me your dear Araminta.”

“My dear Araminta! thus,” said he, embracing her, “thus let me thank thee, my dear Araminta!”

It was in the midst of these thanks that the maid interrupted the well-matched pair, with the news that a young lady was below, who was in a great hurry to see Miss Hodges.

“Let her come,” said Miss Hodges; “I suppose it is only one of the Miss Carvers–Don’t stir, Nat; it will vex her to see you kneeling to me–don’t stir, I say–“

“Where is she? Where is my Araminta?” cried Miss Warwick, as the maid was trying to open the outer passage-door for her, which had a bad lock.

“Get up, get up, Natty; and get some fresh water in the tea-kettle–quick!” cried Miss Hodges, and she began to clear away some of the varieties of literature, etc., which lay scattered about the room. Nat, in obedience to her commands, was making his exit with all possible speed, when Angelina entered, exclaiming–

“My amiable Araminta!–My unknown friend!”

“My Angelina!–My charming Angelina!” cried Miss Hodges.

Miss Hodges was not the sort of person our heroine expected to see;–and to conceal the panic, with which the first sight of her unknown friend struck her disappointed imagination, she turned back to listen to the apologies which Nat Gazabo was pouring forth about his awkwardness and the tea-kettle.

“Turn, Angelina, ever dear!” cried Miss Hodges, with the tone and action of a bad actress who is rehearsing an embrace–“Turn, Angelina, ever dear!–thus, thus let us meet, to part no more.”

“But her voice is so loud,” said Angelina to herself, “and her looks so vulgar, and there is such a smell of brandy!–How unlike the elegant delicacy I had expected in my unknown friend!” Miss Warwick involuntarily shrunk from the stifling embrace.

“You are overpowered, my Angelina–lean on me,” said her Araminta.

Nat Gazabo re-entered with the tea-kettle–

“Here’s boiling water, and we’ll have fresh tea in a trice–the young lady’s over-tired, seemingly–Here’s a chair, miss, here’s a chair,” cried Nat. Miss Warwick sunk upon the chair: Miss Hodges seated herself beside her, continuing to address her in a theatrical tone.

“This moment is bliss unutterable! my kind, my noble-minded Angelina, thus to leave all your friends for your Araminta!”–Suddenly changing her voice–“Set the tea-kettle, Nat!”

“Who is this Nat, I wonder?” thought Miss Warwick.

“Well, and tell me,” said Miss Hodges, whose attention was awkwardly divided between the ceremonies of making tea and making speeches–“and tell me, my Angelina–That’s water enough, Nat–and tell me, my Angelina, how did you find me out?”

“With some difficulty, indeed, my Araminta.” Miss Warwick could hardly pronounce the words.

“So kind, so noble-minded,” continued Miss Hodges–“and did you receive my last letter–three sheets?–And how did you contrive–Stoop the kettle, do, Nat.”

“Oh, this odious Nat! how I wish she would send him away!” thought Miss Warwick.

“And tell me, my Araminta–my Angelina I mean–how did you contrive your elopement–and how did you escape from the eye of your aristocratic Argus–how did you escape from all your unfeeling persecutors?–Tell me, tell me all your adventures, my Angelina!–Butter the toast, Nat,” said Miss Hodges who was cutting bread and butter, which she did not do with the celebrated grace of Charlotte, in the Sorrows of Werter.