At last, just after the conclusion of some brilliant operations, as Hiram called them, of Mr. Burns's, on a lovely day in the summer, when nature was in her glory and all things were very beautiful at Burnsville, Hiram--(I won't say he designed to be false, I have many doubts on that head, and he is entitled to the benefit of them)--Hiram, I say, encountered Sarah Burns a little out of the village, on a romantic path, which he sometimes used as a cross cut to the mill. Affairs were very flourishing--the place full of activity; Joel Burns quite a king and general benefactor there; and Sarah Burns--a charming, very charming girl --his only daughter. Hiram came suddenly on her. Both stopped, of course. * * * * * Mr. Burns that day wondered--wondered exceedingly that the tried and reliable Meeker should fail him on a very important occasion. Something made it necessary that Hiram should visit Slab City, and return in the course of the morning. But the morning passed, and no Hiram. Mr. Burns drove to the mill: his clerk had not appeared there. At dinner time the mystery was solved. Hiram, it seems, had been unable to resist all the conspiring influences. When they met, the two had wandered away toward a pleasant grove, and, seated at the foot of a giant oak, he told Sarah Burns in most seductive terms how he loved her, how he had always loved her since they met at Mrs. Croft's. Sarah did as young girls always do: she burst into tears. This was not at all to Hiram's taste. (Don't be severe with him, reader: he could not appreciate the causes which produce such emotions.) He waited for what he was cool enough to consider hysterical demonstrations to pass, and commenced again to press his suit. 'My father, my father!' exclaimed Sarah; 'I can never give him up.' 'We must leave father and mother, and cleave to each other,' said Hiram solemnly, with anything rather than the tone of a lover. It sounded harsh and repulsive to Sarah, and she began to cry, again, but not as passionately as before. (Hiram was dissatisfied, selfish ever, he disliked exceedingly that she should think of her father at such a time.) 'I know it,' she finally said, 'and that is why I speak. Whatever may be my feelings, I shall never forget my duty to him.' 'And how will loving me interfere with it?' asked Hiram. 'Whatever may be the consequence to me, I will never leave him. And you--your plans take you elsewhere. I know it very well.' Hiram was surprised, he could not imagine how his secret purposes could have been discovered, for he had never divulged them. '_You_ know it, too,' she continued, perceiving he was silent. 'That may he,' he replied; ' but that does not prevent my loving you. And who knows? Perhaps your father will not care to remain, always at Burnsville.' 'Oh, he will never leave it; that I am sure of,' said Sarah, almost sorrowfully, 'And I shall stay with him.'