Silence never suited Miss Peniston long in those days, and especially not at this time, she being in a merry mood, such as a little adventure causes. Her moods were, in fact, many and changeful, and, as I was to learn, were too apt to rule even her serious actions for the time; but under it all was the true law of her life, strongly charactered, and abiding like the constitution of a land. It was long before I knew the real woman, since for her, as for the most of us, all early acquaintance was a masquerade, and some have, like this lady, as many vizards as my Aunt Gainor had in her sandalwood box, with her long gloves and her mitts. The mare being now satisfied to walk comfortably, we were going by the Wister house, when I saw saucy young Sally Wister in the balcony over the stoop, midway of the penthouse. She knew us both, and pretended shame for us, with her hands over her face, laughing merrily. We were friends in afterlife, and if you would know how gay a creature a young Quakeress could be, and how full of mischief, you should see her journal, kept for Deborah Logan, then Miss Norris. It has wonderful gaiety, and, as I read it, fetches back to mind the officers she prettily sketches, and is so sprightly and so full of a life that must have been a joy to itself and to others, that to think of it as gone and over, and of her as dead, seems to me a thing impossible. It was not thought proper then for a young woman to go on pillion behind a young man, and this Miss Sally well knew. I dare say she set it down for the edification of her young friend. “The child” (she was rather more than that) “is saucy,” said my lady, who understood well enough what her gestures meant. “I should like to box her ears. You were very silent just now, Mr. Wynne. A penny is what most folks’ thoughts are bid for, but yours may be worth more. I would not stand at a shilling.” “Then give it to me,” said I. “I assure thee a guinea were too little.” “What are they?” “Oh, but the shilling.” “I promise.” “I seem to see a little, dark-faced child crying because of a boy in disgrace--” “Pretty?” she asked demurely. “No, rather plain.” “You seem to have too good a memory, sir. Who was she?” “She is not here to-day.” “Yes, yes!” she cried. “I have her--oh, somewhere! She comes out on occasions. You may never see her; you may see her to-morrow.” I was to see her often. “My shilling,” I said. “That was only a jest, Mr. Wynne. My other girl has stolen it, for remembrance of a lad that was brave and--” “He was a young fool! My shilling, please.” “No, no!” At this I touched the mare with my spur. She, not seeing the joke, pranced about, and Miss Darthea was forced to hold to my waist for a minute. “The mare is ill broke,” she cried. “Why does she not go along quietly?” “She hates dishonesty,” said. “But I have not a penny.”