“Do you call me to love me, and to kiss me, Cousin William, and to make me your sweetheart again?” “Yes, Susan, you shall be my only sweetheart. I will kiss nobody but you.” “You'll forget--you will--you'll put me out of your lap, and go away shaking your head, and looking so!--” and here the observant little creature attempted a childish imitation of the sad action and the strange, moody gestures with which he had put her down when he was retiring from the room--gestures and looks which the less quick eyes of her mother had failed utterly to perceive. “No, no!” said he, with a sad smile; “no, Susan. I'll keep you in my lap for an hour whenever I come, and you shall be my sweetheart always.” “Your LITTLE sweetheart, your LITTLE Susan, Cousin William.” “Yes, my dear little Susan, my dearest little sweetheart Susan.” And he kissed the child fondly while he spoke, and patted her rosy cheeks with a degree of tenderness which his sad and wandering thoughts did not materially diminish. “But now, Susan,” said he, “if I am to be your sweetheart, and to love you always, you must do all that I bid you. You must go where I send you.” “Don't I, Cousin William? When you send me to Gran'pa Calvert, don't I go and bring you books, and didn't I always run, and come back soon, and never play by the way?” “You're a dear Susan,” said he; “and I want you to carry a paper for me now. Do you see this little paper? What is it?” “A note--don't I know?” “Well, you must carry this note for me to uncle's, but you mustn't give it to uncle, nor to aunty, nor to anybody but the young man that lives there--young Mr. Stevens.” “Parson Stevens,” said the little thing, correcting him. “Ay, ay, Parson Stevens, if you please. You must give it to him, and him only; and he will give you a paper to bring back to me. Will you go now, Susan?” “Yes, I'll go: but, Cousin William, are you going to shoot the little guns? Don't shoot them till I come back, will you?”