I do not pretend to be a judge of these matters, but really I believe Salina was a little taken aback, when she came forth into the porch, with her dress nicely tucked up, and her shawl folded in a fashion that left one arm at liberty, and saw uncle Nathan sitting there in the dark, instead of standing by the cheese-press, hat in hand, determined to escort her as a man of spirit ought to have been, after the trouble she had taken with the shawl. Nor do I pretend to say that she was disappointed, or anything of the sort, because Salina in her day possessed the very germ and root of a strong-minded woman of modern times, and persons of ordinary capacity are shy of running counter to ladies of that class--all that we venture to assert is that she made a dead halt on the porch, looked up and down the garden, observed in an under-tone "It was raining cats and dogs yet," devices by which a weak-minded woman might have insinuated, that she had taken the subject of going home alone into consideration and thought better of it. Uncle Nathan, instead of suspecting the art that I have been wicked enough to insinuate, seemed perfectly oblivious of the antique damsel's presence. At last she gathered up her raiment and muttering. "Well, now, I never did!" prepared to step from the porch, when the voice of uncle Nat arrested her. "Salina, is it you? Come here, Salina!" Salina drew close to uncle Nathan's chair--very close considering the circumstances, and, with a relenting voice, answered, "Well, Mr. Nathan, I'm here--what is it you want to say?" Uncle Nathan reached forth his hand. Salina's unconsciously crept out from the folds of her shawl, in a sort of way as if she didn't intend to let the left hand know what the right was about. "Salina," said uncle Nathan, pressing her fingers in his broad palm. "Well, uncle Nathan?" "My heart is full to-night, Salina, I feel a'most broke down." "Well, now, don't take on this way. My bark is worse than my bite, you know that." "You are a kind soul at the bottom, I always knew that, and have been a true friend to us; I shall never forget you for it." I don't know as uncle Nathan was conscious of it, but Salina's hand certainly tightened around his plump fingers. "You were kind to _her_, and I want to thank you for it." "_Her_! Who are you talking about?" "Our Anna. The night has put me so in mind of her. I've been talking about her to little Mary all the evening, and now let me thank you, for you were always good to Anna." Salina drew her hand from uncle Nathan's, and folded it in her shawl. "I hope I haven't hurt your feelings mentioning her suddenly, after so many years," said the old man. Salina stood upright while he was speaking, but the moment he ceased, the dim light through the kitchen window revealed her wading through the wet plaintain leaves as she turned a corner of the house.