Harry Gay used to go to Squire Coleman’s very often, and sit all the evening and talk with the squire and Aunt Martha, while his great, black eye turned slowly in the direction Kitty moved; but Kitty would not look at him, not she. What right had a stranger, and a visiter, too, to make such a very great parade of his disapprobation? If she did not please him, why she pleased others; and that was enough, she would not turn over her finger to gain his good will. So Harry and Kitty never talked together; and when he went away, (he never went till the conversation fairly died out, and the lamps looked as if about to join it,) he bowed to the old people gracefully and easily, but to the young lady he found it difficult to bend at all. Conduct like this provoked Kitty Coleman beyond endurance; and one evening, after the squire and spinster had left her alone, she sat down and in very spite, sobbed away as though her little heart would break. Now it happened that the squire had lent his visiter a book that evening, which, strange enough for such a scholar, he had forgotten to take with him; but Harry remembered it before it was too late, and turned upon his heel. He had gone out but a moment before, and there was no use in ringing, so he stepped at once into the parlor. Poor Kitty sprang to her feet at the intrusion, and crushed with her fingers two tears that were just ready to lanch themselves on the roundest and rosiest cheek in the world, but she might have done better than blind herself for her foot touched Aunt Martha’s _fauteuil_, and, in consequence, her forehead touched the neck of Rover. It is very awkward to be surprised in the luxurious indulgence of tears at any time, and it is a trifle more awkward still to fall down, and then be raised by the last person in the world you would receive a favor from. Kitty felt the awkwardness of her situation too much to speak; and, of course, Harry, enemy as he was, could not release her until he knew whether she was hurt. It was certain she was not faint, for the crimson blood dyed even the tips of her fingers, and Harry’s face immediately took the same hue, probably from reflection. Kitty looked down until a golden arc of fringe rested lovingly on its glowing neighbor; and Harry looked down, too, but his eye rested on Kitty Coleman’s face. If soul and heart are one and the same thing, as some metaphysicians tell us, Harry must now have discovered the mistake he once made, for there was a strange commotion beneath the boddice of Kitty Coleman; it rose and fell, as nothing but a bounding, throbbing, frightened heart, in the wildest tumult of excited feeling, could make it. And then (poor Kitty must have been hurt, and needed support) an arm stole softly around her waist, dark locks mingled with her sunny ones as a warm breath swept over her cheek—and Kitty Coleman hid her face, not in her hands.