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But she first concluded to advise with William on the subject; and, therefore, after dinner the same day, while he was looking over a treatise on trigonometry or conic sections, she commenced upon him:–

“Our Mary is growing up a fine girl.”

William was intent on solving a problem, and only understanding that something had been said, mechanically answered, “Yes.”

“A little wild or so,” said Mrs. Abigail.

“I know it,” said William, fixing his eyes earnestly on E, F, B, C.

“Perhaps you think her a little too talkative and free with you sometimes; you know girls do not always think what they do.”

“Certainly,” said William, going on with his problem.

“I think you had better speak to her about it,” said Mrs. Abigail.

“I think so too,” said William, musing over his completed work, till at length he arose, put it in his pocket, and went to school.

O, this unlucky concentrativeness! How many shocking things a man may indorse by the simple habit of saying “Yes” and “No,” when he is not hearing what is said to him.

The next morning, when William was gone to the academy, and Mary was washing the breakfast things, Aunt Abigail introduced the subject with great tact and delicacy by remarking.–

“Mary, I guess you had better be rather less free with William than you have been.”

“Free!” said Mary, starting, and nearly dropping the cup from her hand; “why, aunt, what do you mean?”

“Why, Mary, you must not always be around so free in talking with him, at home, and in company, and every where. It won’t do.” The color started into Mary’s cheek, and mounted even to her forehead, as she answered with a dignified air,–

“I have not been too free; I know what is right and proper; I have not been doing any thing that was improper.”

Now, when one is going to give advice, it is very troublesome to have its necessity thus called in question; and Mrs. Abigail, who was fond of her own opinion, felt called upon to defend it.

“Why, yes, you have, Mary; every body in the village notices it.”

“I don’t care what every body in the village says. I shall always do what I think proper,” retorted the young lady; “I know Cousin William does not think so.”

“Well, I think he does, from some things I have heard him say.”

“O aunt! what have you heard him say?” said Mary, nearly upsetting a chair in the eagerness with which she turned to her aunt.

“Mercy on us! you need not knock the house down, Mary. I don’t remember exactly about it, only that his way of speaking made me think so.”

“O aunt! do tell me what it was, and all about it,” said Mary, following her aunt, who went around dusting the furniture.

Mrs. Abigail, like most obstinate people, who feel that they have gone too far, and yet are ashamed to go back, took refuge in an obstinate generalization, and only asserted that she had heard him say things, as if he did not quite like her ways.

This is the most consoling of all methods in which to leave a matter of this kind for a person of active imagination. Of course, in five minutes, Mary had settled in her mind a list of remarks that would have been suited to any of her village companions, as coming from her cousin. All the improbability of the thing vanished in the absorbing consideration of its possibility; and, after a moment’s reflection, she pressed her lips together in a very firm way, and remarked that “Mr. Barton would have no occasion to say such things again.”

It was very evident, from her heightened color and dignified air, that her state of mind was very heroical. As for poor Aunt Abigail, she felt sorry she had vexed her, and addressed herself most earnestly to her consolation, remarking, “Mary, I don’t suppose William meant any thing. He knows you don’t mean any thing wrong.”