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It was the simplest and quietest wedding,–at home, on an August morning. Farmer Meadows then drove the bridal pair half-way on their journey, to the old country tavern, where a fresh conveyance had been engaged for them. The same evening they reached the farm- house in the valley, and Jacob’s happy mood gave place to an anxious uncertainty as he remembered the period of deception upon which Susan was entering. He keenly watched his father’s face when they arrived, and was a little relieved when he saw that his wife had made a good first impression.

“So, this is my new housekeeper,” said the old man. “I hope you will suit me as well as your husband does.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” said she; “but you must have patience with me for a few days, until I know your ways and wishes.”

“Mr. Flint,” said Sally, “shall I get supper ready?” Susan looked up in astonishment at hearing the name.

“Yes,” the old man remarked, “we both have the same name. The fact is, Jacob and I are a sort of relations.”

Jacob, in spite of his new happiness, continued ill at ease, although he could not help seeing how his father brightened under Susan’s genial influence, how satisfied he was with her quick, neat, exact ways and the cheerfulness with which she fulfilled her duties. At the end of a week, the old man counted out the wages agreed upon for both, and his delight culminated at the frank simplicity with which Susan took what she supposed she had fairly earned.

“Jacob,” he whispered when she had left the room, “keep quiet one more week, and then I’ll let her know.”

He had scarcely spoken, when Susan burst into the room again, crying, “Jacob, they are coming, they have come!”

“Who?”

“Father and mother; and we didn’t expect them, you know, for a week yet.”

All three went to the door as the visitors made their appearance on the veranda. Two of the party stood as if thunderstruck, and two exclamations came together:

“Samuel Flint!”

“Lucy Wheeler!”

There was a moment’s silence; then the farmer’s wife, with a visible effort to compose herself, said, “Lucy Meadows, now.”

The tears came into Samuel Flint’s eyes. “Let us shake hands, Lucy,” he said: “my son has married your daughter.”

All but Jacob were freshly startled at these words. The two shook hands, and then Samuel, turning to Susan’s father, said: “And this is your husband, Lucy. I am glad to make his acquaintance.”

“Your father, Jacob!” Susan cried; “what does it all mean?”

Jacob’s face grew red, and the old habit of hanging his head nearly came back upon him. He knew not what to say, and looked wistfully at his father.

“Come into the house and sit down,” said the latter. “I think we shall all feel better when we have quietly and comfortably talked the matter over.”

They went into the quaint, old-fashioned parlor, which had already been transformed by Susan’s care, so that much of its shabbiness was hidden. When all were seated, and Samuel Flint perceived that none of the others knew what to say, he took a resolution which, for a man of his mood and habit of life, required some courage.

“Three of us here are old people,” he began, “and the two young ones love each other. It was so long ago, Lucy, that it cannot be laid to my blame if I speak of it now. Your husband, I see, has an honest heart, and will not misunderstand either of us. The same thing often turns up in life; it is one of those secrets that everybody knows, and that everybody talks about except the persons concerned. When I was a young man, Lucy, I loved you truly, and I faithfully meant to make you my wife.”

“I thought so too, for a while,” said she, very calmly.