She arose the next day somewhat more composed, and with a face which betrayed sleeplessness, but nothing worse. This she ascribed to the headache with which she had retired. She had not slept an instant, and she arose entirely unrefreshed. But the stimulating thoughts which had kept her wakeful, furnished her with sufficient strength to appear as usual in the household, and to go through her accustomed duties. But it was with an impatience scarcely restrainable that she waited for the approach of evening which would bring her lover. Him she felt it now absolutely of the last necessity that she should see; that she should once more go with him to those secret places, the very thought of which inspired her with terror, and, laying bare her soul to his eyes, demand of him the only restitution which he could make. He came. Once more she descended the steps to meet him--Her mother arrested her on the stairway. A cunning leer was in her eye, as she looked into the woful, impassive eyes of her daughter. She grinned with a sort of delight expressive of the conviction that the advice she had given the night before was to be put in execution soon. “Fix him, Margaret; he's mighty eager for you. You've cut your eye-tooth--be quick, and you'll have a famous parson for a husband yet.” The girl shrunk from the counsellor as if she had been a serpent. The very counsel was enough to show her the humiliating attitude in which she stood to all parties. “Remember,” said the old woman, detaining her--“don't be too willing at first. Let him speak fairly out. A young maiden can't be too backward, until the man offers to make her a young wife!” The last words went to her soul like an arrow. “A young maiden!” she almost murmured aloud, as she descended the steps--“O God! how lovely now, to my eyes, appears the loveliness of a young maiden!” She joined Stevens in silence, the mother watching them with the eyes of a maternal hawk as they went forth together. They pursued a customary route, and, passing through one of the gorges of the surrounding hills, they soon lost sight of the village. When the forest-shadows had gathered thickly around them, and the silence of the woods became felt, Stevens approached more nearly, and, renewing a former liberty, put his arm about her waist. She gently but firmly removed it, but neither of them spoke a word. A dense copse appeared before them. Toward it he would have led the way. But she resolutely turned aside, and, while a shudder passed over her frame, exclaimed-- “Not there--not there!”