“No use hiding, Mary,” I called out, “I saw you all the time; my mock confession was got up merely to amuse you. Come out boldly and laugh as long as you will.” No answer. This refusal amazed me. It was like a disbelief in my assertion. “Come, come!” I cried, “you can't pretend to think I was serious in all this vainglorious nonsense. Come, Mary, and let us enjoy the laugh at it together. If you don't, I shall be angry. I'll take it ill,--very ill.” Still no reply. Could I, then, have been deceived? Was it a mere delusion? But no; I heard the low laugh, and the rustle of the dress, and the quick tread upon the gravel, too plainly for any mistake, and so I returned to the cottage in chagrin and ill-temper. As I passed the open windows' of the little drawing-room I saw Mary seated at her work, with, as was her custom, an open book on a little table beside her. Absorbed as she was, she did not lift her head, nor notice my approach till I entered the room. “You have no letter for me?” she cried, in a voice of sorrowful meaning. “None,” said I scrutinizing her closely, and sorely puzzled what to make of her calm deportment. “Have you been out in the garden this morning?” I asked, abruptly. “No,” said she, frankly. “Not quitted the house at all?” “No. Why do you ask?” cried she, in some surprise. “I 'll tell you,” I said, sitting down at her side, and speaking in a low and confidential tone; “a strange thing has just happened to me.” And with that I narrated the incident, glossing over, as best I might, the absurdity of my soliloquizing, and the nature of the self-examination I was engaged in. Without waiting for me to finish, she broke in suddenly with a low laugh, and said,-- “It must have been Rose.” “And who is Rose?” I asked half sternly. “A cousin of ours, a mere school-girl, who has just arrived. She came by the mail this morning, when you were out. But here she is, coming up the walk. Just step behind that screen, and you shall have your revenge. I'll make her tell everything.” I had barely time to conceal myself, when, with a merry laugh, a fresh, girlish voice called out, “I 've seen him! I have seen him, Mary! I was sitting on the rock beside the river, when he came into the summer-house, and, fancying himself alone and unseen, proceeded to make his confession to himself.” “His confession! What do you mean?” “I don't exactly know whether that be the proper name for it, but it was a sort of self-examination, not very painful, certainly, inasmuch as it was rather flattering than otherwise.” “I really cannot understand you, Rose.” “I'm not surprised,” said she, laughing again. “It was some time before I could satisfy myself that he was not talking to somebody else, or reading ont of a book; and when, peeping through the leaves, I perceived he was quite alone, I almost screamed out with laughing.” “But why, child? What was the absurdity that amused you?”