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“Well!” exclaimed Miss Bussey. “Have they had a tiff?” And she slowly waddled (truth imposes this word-she was very stout) toward the unconscious John. He advanced toward her still reading; not only did he not see her, but he failed to notice that Paul had got under his feet. He fell over Paul, and as he stumbled the letter fluttered out of his hand. Paul seized it and began to toss it about in great glee.

“Good doggie!” Cried Miss Bussey. “Come then! Bring it to me, dear. Good Paul!”

John’s face was distorted with agony. He darted toward Paul, fell on him, and gripped him closely. Paul yelped and Miss Bussey observed, in an indignant tone, that John need not throttle the dog. John muttered something.

“Is the letter so very precious?” asked his hostess ironically.

“Precious!” cried John. “Yes!–No!–It’s nothing at all.”

But he opened Paul’s mouth and took out his treasure with wonderful care.

“And why,” inquired Miss Bussey, “are you not with Mary, young man? You’re very neglectful.”

“Neglectful! Surely, Miss Bussey, you haven’t noticed anything–like neglect? Don’t say—-“

“Bless the boy! I was only joking. You’re a model lover.”

“Thank you, thank you. I’ll go to her at once,” and he sped towards the window, opened it and walked up to Mary. Miss Bussey followed him and arrived just in time to see the lovers locked in one another’s arms, their faces expressing all appropriate rapture.

“There’s nothing much wrong,” said Miss Bussey; wherein Miss Bussey herself was much wrong.

“What a shame! I’ve left you alone for more than an hour!” said John. “Have you been very unhappy?” and he added, “darling.” It sounded like an afterthought.

“I have been rather unhappy,” answered Mary, and her answer was true. As she said it she tucked in a projecting edge of her letter. John had hurriedly slipped his (it was rather the worse for its mauling) into his trousers-pocket.

“You–you didn’t think me neglectful?”

“Oh, no.”

“I was thinking of you all the time,”

“And I was thinking of you, dear.”

“Are you very happy?”

“Yes, John; aren’t you?”

“Of course I am. Happy! I should think so,” and he kissed her with unimpeachable fervor.

When a conscientious person makes up his mind that he ought, for good reasons, to deceive somebody, there is no one like him for thorough-paced hypocrisy. When two conscientious people resolve; to deceive one another, on grounds of duty, the acme of duplicity is in a fair way to be reached. John Ashforth and Mary Travers illustrated this proposition. The former had been all his life a good son, and was now a trustworthy partner, to his father, who justly relied no less on his character than on his brains. The latter, since her parents’ early death had left her to her aunt’s care, had been the comfort and prop of Miss Bussey’s life. It is difficult to describe good people without making them seem dull; but luckily nature is defter than novelists, and it is quite possible to be good without being dull. Neither Mary nor John was dull; a trifle limited, perhaps, they were, a thought severe in their judgments of others as well as of themselves; a little exacting with their friends and more than a little with themselves. One description paints them both; doubtless their harmony of mind had contributed more than Mary’s sweet expression and finely cut features, or John’s upstanding six feet, and honest capable face, to produce that attachment between them which had, six months before this story begins, culminated in their engagement. Once arrived at, this ending seemed to have been inevitable. Everybody discovered that they had foretold it from the first, and modestly disclaimed any credit for anticipating a union between a couple so obviously made for one another.

The distress into which lovers such as these fell when they discovered by personal experience that sincerely to vow eternal love is one thing, and sincerely to give it quite another, may be well imagined, and may well be left to be imagined. They both went through a terrible period of temptation, wherein they listened longingly to the seductive pleading of their hearts; but both emerged triumphant, resolved to stifle their mad fancy, to prefer good faith to mere inclination, and to avoid, at all costs, wounding one to whom they had sworn to be true. Thus far their steadfastness carried them, but not beyond. They could part from their loved ones, and they did; but they could not leave them without a word. Each wrote, after leaving Scotland and Switzerland respectively, a few lines of adieu, confessing the love they felt, but with resolute sadness saying farewell forever. They belonged to another.