But she never spoke of any former and more intimate acquaintance with Mr. Holbrook. She had probably met with so little sympathy in her early love, that she had shut it up close in her heart; and it was only by a sort of watching, which I could hardly avoid, since Miss Pole’s confidence, that I saw how faithful her poor heart had been in its sorrow and its silence. She gave me some good reason for wearing her best cap every day, and sate near the window, in spite of her rheumatism, in order to see, without being seen, down into the street. He came. He put his open palms upon his knees, which were far apart, as he sate with his head bent down, whistling, after we had replied to his inquiries about our safe return. Suddenly, he jumped up. “Well, madam! have you any commands for Paris? I’m going there in a week or two.” “To Paris!” we both exclaimed. “Yes, ma’am! I’ve never been there, and always had a wish to go; and I think if I don’t go soon, I mayn’t go at all; so as soon as the hay is got in I shall go, before harvest-time.” We were so much astonished, that we had no commissions. Just as he was going out of the room, he turned back, with his favorite exclamation: “God bless my soul, madam! but I nearly forgot half my errand. Here are the poems for you, you admired so much the other evening at my house.” He tugged away at a parcel in his coat-pocket. “Good-by, Miss,” said he; “good-by, Matey! take care of yourself.” And he was gone. But he had given her a book, and he had called her Matey, just as he used to do thirty years ago. “I wish he would not go to Paris,” said Miss Matilda, anxiously. “I don’t believe frogs will agree with him; he used to have to be very careful what he ate, which was curious in so strong-looking a young man.” Soon after this I took my leave, giving many an injunction to Martha to look after her mistress, and to let me know if she thought that Miss Matilda was not so well; in which case I would volunteer a visit to my old friend, without noticing Martha’s intelligence to her. Accordingly I received a line or two from Martha every now and then; and, about November, I had a note to say her mistress was “very low, and sadly off her food;” and the account made me so uneasy, that, although Martha did not decidedly summon me, I packed up my things and went. I received a warm welcome, in spite of the little flurry produced by my impromptu visit, for I had only been able to give a day’s notice. Miss Matilda looked miserably ill; and I prepared to comfort and cosset her. I went down to have a private talk with Martha. “How long has your mistress been so poorly?” I asked, as I stood by the kitchen fire. “Well! I think it’s better than a fortnight; it is, I know: it was one Tuesday after Miss Pole had been here that she went into this moping way. I thought she was tired, and it would go off with a night’s rest; but, no! she has gone on and on ever since, till I thought it my duty to write to you, ma’am.”