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“Don’t mean any thing wrong!” said Mary, indignantly.

“Why, child, he thinks you don’t know much about folks and things, and if you have been a little—-“

“But I have not been. It was he that talked with me first. It was he that did every thing first. He called me cousin–and he is my cousin.”

“No, child, you are mistaken; for you remember his grandfather was—-“

“I don’t care who his grandfather was; he has no right to think of me as he does.”

“Now, Mary, don’t go to quarrelling with him; he can’t help his thoughts, you know.”

“I don’t care what he thinks,” said Mary, flinging out of the room with tears in her eyes.

Now, when a young lady is in such a state of affliction, the first thing to be done is to sit down and cry for two hours or more, which Mary accomplished in the most thorough manner; in the mean while making many reflections on the instability of human friendships, and resolving never to trust any one again as long as she lived, and thinking that this was a cold and hollow-hearted world, together with many other things she had read in books, but never realized so forcibly as at present. But what was to be done? Of course she did not wish to speak a word to William again, and wished he did not board there; and finally she put on her bonnet, and determined to go over to her other aunt’s in the neighborhood, and spend the day, so that she might not see him at dinner.

But it so happened that Mr. William, on coming home at noon, found himself unaccountably lonesome during school recess for dinner, and hearing where Mary was, determined to call after school at night at her aunt’s, and attend her home.

Accordingly, in the afternoon, as Mary was sitting in the parlor with two or three cousins, Mr. William entered.

Mary was so anxious to look just as if nothing was the matter, that she turned away her head, and began to look out of the window just as the young gentleman came up to speak to her. So, after he had twice inquired after her health, she drew up very coolly, and said,–

“Did you speak to me, sir?”

William looked a little surprised at first, but seating himself by her, “To be sure,” said he; “and I came to know why you ran away without leaving any message for me?”

“It did not occur to me,” said Mary, in the dry tone which, in a lady, means, “I will excuse you from any further conversation, if you please.” William felt as if there was something different from common in all this, but thought that perhaps he was mistaken, and so continued:–

“What a pity, now, that you should be so careless of me, when I was so thoughtful of you! I have come all this distance, to see how you do.”

“I am sorry to have given you the trouble,” said Mary.

“Cousin, are you unwell to-day?” said William.

“No, sir,” said Mary, going on with her sewing.

There was something so marked and decisive in all this, that William could scarcely believe his ears. He turned away, and commenced a conversation with a young lady; and Mary, to show that she could talk if she chose, commenced relating a story to her cousins, and presently they were all in a loud laugh.

“Mary has been full of her knickknacks to-day,” said her old uncle, joining them.

William looked at her: she never seemed brighter or in better spirits, and he began to think that even Cousin Mary might puzzle a man sometimes.

He turned away, and began a conversation with old Mr. Zachary Coan on the raising of buckwheat–a subject which evidently required profound thought, for he never looked more grave, not to say melancholy.

Mary glanced that way, and was struck with the sad and almost severe expression with which he was listening to the details of Mr. Zachary, and was convinced that he was no more thinking of buckwheat than she was.