Instead, however, of setting about the various little tasks which, to beguile her loneliness, Mrs. Middleton had suggested, Sophy sat down by the window, and was soon lost in deep thought. What was the subject of her meditations, I think I _would_ not tell, even if I could, because I do not choose to betray all the weaknesses of my sex; but I am sure her eyes were wet, and her face very sorrowful, when who should come trotting to the door but Archie Harris himself, the very last person in the world one might have expected on election-day, when everybody, young or old, was, or ought to have been, busy at the Brookville poll. Be this as it may, however, here, as I said, came Archie, who threw the bridle of his pretty bay pony over the gate-post, and walked into the sitting-room, saying, “I met your folks just now going to the village, and hearing you were at home, called to see you.” Sophy received him with a mixture of reserve and cordiality quite unmistakable, and a blended shower of tears, smiles, and blushes, which Archie interpreted favorably, I suppose, for he said, “Then you _are_ glad to see an old friend once more, Sophy.” “Certainly I am, and it is a long time since you were here.” “Long! let me see—six weeks, I guess. You don’t call that a great while, do you?” “Oh, yes, I do,” replied Sophy, blushing. “We are so lonely now that we have learned to think much of our friends.” “Have you?” said Archie, regarding her with a look half pleased, half sorrowful, as if some painful recollection at that moment crossed his mind; “that is enough to make _some_ of us almost glad that you have left Brookville.” “Oh! never say you are glad of _that_!” cried Sophy, earnestly, “when it made me so unhappy.” “Not glad on some accounts, certainly,” said Archie, “not that you should have met with misfortune, but only because you think more of old friends here than there.” “True! real friends are the same everywhere,” said Sophy, not exactly knowing what to say. “Sometimes—not always,” replied Archie, significantly. “But if friends bring bad news, are they less welcome?” “I don’t believe you have any _bad_ news to tell me this afternoon,” said Sophy. “You look very well pleased.” “Oh! it is not disagreeable news to _me_, but perhaps it may be to _you_,” said Archie, smiling. “Let me hear it, then,” said Sophy, “or maybe I can guess it. Mr. Wilson has sold the old place.” “Yes, the old place has changed hands again, and _I_ think for the better; but that is not the news I mean.” “Do tell me, then,” said Sophy, impatiently, “for I cannot guess.” “Perhaps,” said Archie, suddenly becoming grave, “it may make you sorry; and if so, I had rather not be the one to tell it; but—Philip Greyson is married.” “Is that all?” asked Sophy, blushing to the very eyes at the mention of Philip’s name. “I thought your news was _bad_.”