"I don't know," said the pretty hypocrite, demurely. "H'm! well, I do," answered Long; "and you a'n't never goin' to take up with a Tory? don't think it's yer dooty, hey?" "No indeed!" flashed Sally. "Do you think I'd marry a Britisher? I'd run away and live with the Indians first." "Pooty good! pooty good! you're calk'lating to make George into a rebel, I 'xpect?" Long was looking into the fire when he said this; he did not see Sally's look of rage and amazement at his unpleasant penetration. "I'm sure I don't care what George Tucker thinks," said she, with a toss of her curly head. "H'm!" uttered Long, meditatively, "lucky! I 'xpect he carries too many guns to be steered by a woman; 'tis a kinder pity you a'n't a man, Sally; mebbe you'd argufy him round then; it's plain as the Gulf you can't crook his v'yage; he's too stiff for wimmin-folks, that is a fact!" Oh, Long Snapps! Long Snapps! how many wives, in how many ports, went to the knowledge of feminine nature that dictated that speech? Sally set her lips. From that hour George Tucker was a doomed man; but she said nothing more audible than "Goodnight." Long looked at her, as she lit the tallow dip by the fire, and chuckled when he heard her shut the milk-room door in the safe distance. He was satisfied. The next afternoon, Sally was weeding onions in the garden;--heroines did, in those days;--the currant-bushes had but just leafed out; so George Tucker, going by, saw her; and she, who had seen him coming before she began to weed, accidentally of course, looked up and gave him a very bright smile. That was the first spider-thread, and the fly stepped into it with such a thrill! Of course he stopped, and said,--