“I do not, however, William,” was the answer in more softened tones. There was something in this speech of her lover, that found its way through the only accessible avenues of her nature. It was a truth, which she often repeated to herself with congratulatory pride, that she had few feelings or desires in common with the crowd. “It is my misfortune,” she continued, “to care very little for the pastimes you speak of; and as for the company, I've no doubt it will be very pleasant for those who go, but to me it will afford very little pleasure. Your mother must therefore excuse me, William:--I should be a very dull person among the rest.” “She will be so very sorry, Margaret--and Ned, whose new fiddle has just come, and Jason Lightner, with his flute. They all spoke of you and look for you above all, to hear them this evening. They will be so disappointed.” William Hinkley spoke nothing of his own disappointment, but it was visible enough in his blank countenance, and sufficiently audible in the undisguised faltering of his accents. “I do not think they will be so much disappointed, William Hinkley. They have no reason to be, as they have no right to look for me in particular. I have very little acquaintance with the young men you speak of.” “Why, Margaret, they live alongside of you--and I'm sure you've met them a thousand times in company,” was the response of the youth, uttered in tones more earnest than any he had yet employed in the dialogue, and with something of surprise in his accents. “Perhaps so; but that makes them no intimates of mine, William Hinkley. They may be very good young men, and, indeed, so far as I know, they really are; but that makes no difference. We find our acquaintances and our intimates among those who are congenial, who somewhat resemble us in spirit, feeling, and understanding.” “Ah, Margaret!” said her rustic companion with a sigh, which amply testified to the humility of his own self-estimate, and of the decline of his hope which came with it--“ah, Margaret, if that be the rule, where are you going to find friends and intimates in Charlemont?” “Where!” was the single word spoken by the haughty maiden, as her eye wandered off to the cold tops of the distant hills along which the latest rays of falling sunlight, faint and failing, as they fell, imparted a hue, which though bright, still as it failed to warm, left an expression of October sadness to the scene, that fitly harmonized with the chilling mood under which she had spoken throughout the interview.