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“Years before, when I was only eight or ten years old, I had met your mother with your family at the seaside, where my mother took me. I had seen a great deal of her, and knew all about her. I remembered well her habitual consideration for the nurses and servants in her employ. I knew her address in Boston, and I resolved to try to find a refuge in her family. And so there is my story. I left a note with my stepmother, saying that I was going to seek independent employment, and then went to Boston to your house. There I hoped to find a quiet asylum,–at least, till I could hear from my aunt in Scotland. The delay of hearing from her during those two years at your house often made me low-spirited.”

“But what made you so afraid of McPherson?” said I nervously. “I remember your faintness, and all that, the day he called.”

“Oh, that? Why, it was merely this,–they were on intimate visiting terms with my mother-in-law, and I knew that it would be all up with my plans if they were to be often at the house.”

“Why didn’t you tell my mother?” said I.

“I did think of it, but then”–She gave me a curious glance.

“But what, Mary?”

“Well, I could see plainly enough that there were no secrets between you and her, and I did not wish to take so fine a young gentleman into my confidence,” said Mary. “You will observe I was not out seeking flirtations, but an honest independence.”

* * * * *

My mother was apprised of our engagement in due form, and came to Newport, all innocence, to call on Miss McIntyre, her intended daughter-in-law. Her astonishment at the moment of introduction was quite satisfactory to me.

For the rest, Mary’s talents in making a home agreeable have had since then many years of proof; and where any of the little domestic chasms appear which are formed by the shifting nature of the American working-class, she always slides into the place with a quiet grace, and reminds me, with a humorous twinkle of the eye, that she is used to being second girl.