One summer evening the Doctor on his way back from a visit in that direction, stopt, as on such opportunities he usually did, at Mr. Bacon's wicket, and looked in at the open casement to see if his friends were within. Mr. Bacon was sitting there alone, with a book open on the table before him; and looking round when he heard the horse stop, “Come in Doctor,” said he, “if you have a few minutes to spare. You were never more welcome.” The Doctor replied, “I hope nothing ails either Deborah or yourself?” “No,” said Mr. Bacon, “God be thanked! but something has occurred which concerns both.” When the Doctor entered the room, he perceived that the wonted serenity of his friend's countenance was overcast by a shade of melancholy thought; “Nothing,” said he, “I hope has happened to distress you?”—“Only to disturb us,” was the reply. “Most people would probably think that we ought to consider it a piece of good fortune. One who would be thought a good match for her, has proposed to marry Deborah.” “Indeed!” said the Doctor; “and who is he?” feeling, as he asked the question, an unusual warmth in his face. “Joseph Hebblethwaite, of the Willows. He broke his mind to me this morning, saying that he thought it best to speak with me before he made any advances himself to the young woman: indeed he had had no opportunity of so doing, for he had seen little of her; but he had heard enough of her character to believe that she would make him a good wife; and this, he said, was all he looked for, for he was well to do in the world.” “And what answer did you make to this matter-of-fact way of proceeding?” “I told him that I commended the very proper course he had taken, and that I was obliged to him for the good opinion of my daughter which he was pleased to entertain: that marriage was an affair in which I should never attempt to direct her inclinations, being confident that she would never give me cause to oppose them; and that I would talk with her upon the proposal, and let him know the result. As soon as I mentioned it to Deborah, she coloured up to her eyes; and with an angry look, of which I did not think those eyes had been capable, she desired me to tell him that he had better lose no time in looking elsewhere, for his thinking of her was of no use. Do you know any ill of him? said I; No, she replied, but I never heard any good, and that's ill enough. And I do not like his looks.” “Well said, Deborah!” cried the Doctor: clapping his hands so as to produce a sonorous token of satisfaction. “Surely, my child, said I, he is not an ill-looking person? Father, she replied, you know he looks as if he had not one idea in his head to keep company with another.” “Well said, Deborah!” repeated the Doctor. “Why Doctor, do you know any ill of him?”