“So I find, Margaret, you have been gadding as usual this morning,” said Mr. Belden, “and filling your cousin’s little head with more folly and nonsense than her good mother can eradicate in a twelve-month.” “O, no, papa, I have done nothing of the kind, I assure you; and yet I should not like to be answerable for all the mischief done that little head and heart, too, to-day,” answered Margaret, looking archly at her cousin. “See how she blushes. Now confess, Emma, the image of a certain person, who so awkwardly beset us this morning, still haunts your fancy.” “Well, Margaret, I do confess,” replied Emma, while a crimson glow mantled her cheeks, “that I think he possessed one of the finest faces I ever saw. He was not more awkward, certainly, than we were; and I much doubt whether, in fact, we were not the most so of the three.” “Speak for yourself, if you please,” was the reply; “for my part, I never enjoyed any thing more. Such sideling and bowing; such blushing, and such bobbing about; why a dancing-master might make a fortune out of this new _pas de trois_. And as for you, Emma, you really looked like a little simpleton.” “What is all this, girls—what new adventure have you met with?” inquired Mr. Belden. “Only one of those awkward rencounters, papa, which happen every day, except, perhaps, that one seldom sees a handsomer young man than the poor fellow who came so near running us down. Tall and erect, eyes like stars, brows black as night, and, but for his awkwardness, a very—but, mercy, Emma, look, look—there he is—yes, it certainly is,” she suddenly exclaimed; “do come here, quick. See, he is evidently looking for some number. Now he is at 87; there, he stops at 91—no that is not it; see how he gazes this way. As I live, the fellow is crossing over! Why the audacious—he _bows_. Emma, Emma, he is coming up the steps!” and even as she spoke there was a ring at the door. The girls quickly disappeared, and the next moment Auburn was ushered into the presence of the astonished Mr. Belden; doubtless no less astonished himself at his position and daring errand. Daring, indeed—but what will not love dare! After so suddenly losing sight of his _inamorata_, without the shadow of a hope that he might ever again behold her, Auburn turned, and gloomily accompanied his friend Evans to his lodgings, wishing, nevertheless, that he had been many fathoms deep, ere he had thus inopportunely encountered him. His unusual taciturnity drew forth the raillery of his friend. Auburn vainly endeavored to shake off this depression; but the very effort only caused him to talk the more wildly, then plunged him again into the same moody silence. Evans jested the more, until finally, already in no very amiable frame of mind, he became provoked; high words ensued, and the two friends parted in anger. “Alas! how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love.”