After reading this letter, as may be supposed, Harry was not long in determining what course to pursue. After a few hurried preparations, he started for Albany. The weather was intensely cold; the snow lay on the ground, and the sun beamed on the icicles which hung from the houses, retaining, probably, their fantastic pendules by the keen easterly wind which seemed to penetrate through every crevice. It was St. Valentine’s day. Mr. Pluribusi, his niece, and Miss Medford, the daughter of the lady with whom they were staying, were wending their way to a fair, which was gotten up by the ladies of Albany for the benefit of a missionary cause—and many of the most beautiful and fashionable took a deep interest in the matter. Some furnished articles for sale, and others acted as sales-women on the occasion. Among the latter our heroine shone conspicuous for grace and beauty; her table was soon surrounded by a crowd of admirers, who pressed forward in every direction to catch a word or a look from one so celebrated. Mary, however, did not appear to take much interest in the group around her, but ever and anon she cast, by stealth, her dark eyes over the room, apparently endeavoring to discover if she recognized among any of the faces, that of an old acquaintance, (for her uncle had told her that Mr. Thatcher was in the city, and would visit the fair that day,) but she could see nothing to repay the effort. “I declare, this is an Arabian desert,” said she, sighing, as she split one of her white kid gloves in pulling it on. “Why, Mary, they look like the best French kid,” answered Miss Medford, who misunderstood her. “My dear,” said her uncle, “do not you see an old admirer of yours sauntering about the room in the most lounging, lazy style?” “Which of your admirers, Mary?” asked Miss Medford. “Pray, Miss Bryarly, have you got your list in your pocket?” inquired one of the danglers at her side. “Not at all—she left it at home,” said Miss Medford, finding Mary did not answer. “How unfortunate!” observed the young man. Mary was becoming actively engaged in tossing over all sorts of merchandise. In a few moments Harry approached through the crowd, and stood before her. She crimsoned as her ear drank in the tones of his voice, and his heart thrilled, and his cheek burnt, when he met her glance of recognition. “What a beautiful color your friend has, Mary,” whispered Miss Medford; “and, I declare, you are blushing, too.” Poor Mary’s color deepened; she stood with a trembling heart, and downcast eye, fancying every one was looking at her—every one guessing her treasured secret, with scarcely the power to answer the remarks of her companions. Their mutual emotion supplied the gossips of Albany with material for a week’s talk.