"No, poor me!" she said sorrowfully, without a bit of anger, so that I was softened in a trice. "But the ladies of New York, even, are no such tawdry make-believes as this.--Heaven knows, I would give ten years of life for a sight of the fine world of London!" She was looking so divine at that moment, that I could not but whisper: "You would see nothing finer there than yourself." "Do you think so?" she quickly asked, flashing her eyes upon me in a strange way that called for a serious answer. "'Tis the God's truth," I said, earnestly. For a moment she was silent; then she whispered: "What a silly whimsy of my father, his hatred of England! Does he imagine none of us is really ever to see the world?--That reminds me, don't forget the _Town and Country Magazine_ to-morrow." I had once come upon a copy of that publication, which reflected the high life of England, perhaps too much on its scandalous side; and had shown it to Margaret. Immediately she had got me to subscribe for it, and to pass each number clandestinely to her. I, delighted to do her a favour, and to have a secret with her, complied joyously; and obtained for her as many novels and plays as I could, as well. Little I fancied what bee I thus helped to keep buzzing in her pretty head, which she now carried with all the alternate imperiousness and graciousness of confident and proven beauty. Little I divined of feminine dreams of conquest in larger fields; or foresaw of dangerous fruit to grow from seed planted with thoughtlessness. To my mind, nothing of harm or evil could ensue from anything done, or thought, in our happy little group. To my eyes, the future could be only radiant and triumphant. For I was still but a lad at heart, and to think as I did, or to be thoughtless as I was, is the way of youth. CHAPTER IV. _How Philip and I Behaved as Rivals in Love._ I was always impatient, and restless to settle uncertainties. One fine morning in the Spring of 1773, Philip and I were breaking the Sabbath by practising with the foils in our back garden. Spite of all the lessons I had taken from an English fencing-master in the town, Phil was still my superior in the gentlemanly art. After a bout, on this sunshiny morning, we rested upon a wooden bench, in the midst of a world of white and pink and green, for the apple and cherry blossoms were out, and the leaves were in their first freshness. The air was full of the odour of lilacs and honeysuckles. Suddenly the matter that was in my mind came out. "I wish you'd tell me something, Phil--though 'tis none of my business,--" "Why, man, you're welcome to anything I know." "Then, is there aught between Margaret and you--any agreement or understanding, I mean?" Phil smiled, comprehending me thoroughly. "No, there's nothing. I'm glad you asked. It shows there's no promise between her and you, either."