The young man glanced up carelessly at the Buckley house as he passed; then he started, and fairly stopped, and his heart leaped almost with fear, for it actually seemed to him that he saw the face of an angel in the window. “Who was the maid in the window of the house back yonder?” he said to his aunt as soon as he had greeted her. He waved his hand carelessly backward, and tried to speak as carelessly, but his aunt gave him a sharp look. “It must have been Persis Buckley,” said she. “There is not another face like that in the whole country,” said the young man, and in spite of himself his tongue betrayed him. “Yes, it is generally considered that she has a fair face,” said Tabitha, dryly. “She has accomplishments also. She can play music, and she has a pretty voice for a song. She can dance, though that’s not to be spoke of in this godly town, and she is well versed in polite literature. Persis Buckley is fitted to adorn any high estate to which she may be called.” There was a mysterious tone in Tabitha’s voice, and her nephew looked at her with eager inquiry. “What mean you, aunt?” he said. “What I have said,” replied she, aggravatingly, and would tell him no more. She was secretly a little jealous that her nephew had shortened his greeting to her to inquire about Persis. Old single woman though she was, her feminine birthright of jealousy of the love of men, be they lovers or sons or nephews, still survived in her heart. The young man dared not ask her any more questions, but the next day he passed the Buckley house many a time with sidelong glances at the window where Persis sat. He would not stare too boldly at that fair vision. And in the evening he stole out and strolled slowly over the meadows, and came to the Buckley house again. She was not at the window then, but the sweet tinkle of her piano came out to him from the candle-lit room, and he listened in rapture to her tender little voice trilling and quavering. Then peeping cautiously, he saw her graceful head thrown back, and her white throat swelling with her song like a bird’s. When he returned, his aunt looked at him sharply, but she did not ask where he had been. When he took his candle to retire for the night, her old blue eyes twinkled at him suddenly. “How did the little bird sing to-night?” she said. The young man stared at her a second, then he blushed and laughed. “Bravely, aunt, bravely,” he replied. “’Tis a bird in the bush, nephew,” said she, and her voice was mocking, yet shrewdly tender. Darius’s face fell. “What do you mean, aunt?” he said. “’Tis a bird that will always sing in the bush, and never in hand.” Darius made as if he would question his aunt further, but he did not. He bade her good-night in a downcast and confused manner, and was out of the room like a shy girl. Mistress Tabitha chuckled to herself, then she looked grave, and sat in her rocking-chair for a long time thinking.