“But a pretty name for all that,” said Boston. “You don’t want to hear it; then I’ll tell it. I call her _Katrine_!” “What’s her other name?” “Veeder.” “_Me!_ Oh, you beast—you been fooling me all dis time. You lie, _dreadful_; I don’t know what may happen to you; but, after all, I am glad you said Katrine, and I am glad you said Veeder, for I don’t know what I should do if you were to fall in love with any one else, you dear, cheating, bundling old vagabond!” With these somewhat contradictory epithets, Katrine kissed him, then and there. “Let’s get back to what we were talking of before, my dear,” said Boston. “I can’t afford too much time here. Where is Theresa?” “Somewhere about the house.” “Where?” “I don’t know, Boston; promise me—promise poor Katrine that you will not lead her into any rash things, which may make her father angry; he is none too kind to her since she saw dat young lieutenant, and they learned to love each other. Dat’s de same time you and me tried it, you dear old swindler.” “The very time. Now, I ain’t going to make no rash promises. I don’t know what _may_ happen; but, this I will promise—through my means, no harm shall come to the gal. I like her for herself, and I like her for the sake of Willie, who is the best young fellow I know.” A clear, rich voice sounded at this moment in a merry song. Katrine held up her hand. “That’s her; who could have the heart to do her a wrong? Ah; she is coming in here.” The door was thrown open, and the singer stood upon the threshold like a picture in a frame—a beautiful picture, too. Theresa Van Curter was a rare type of her style of beauty—the blonde. Her fair hair, lustrous and waving, was put back from a white forehead, and confined at the back with an antique comb; her dress was suited to the station in which she was placed, partaking something of the Indian character, and giving free play to her limbs, a broad hat, which she had been wearing in her stroll through the forest, was swung upon her arm, while her hand clasped a bouquet of wild flowers she had gathered. She started in some surprise at the appearance of Boston, and then, dropping the flowers and hat to the floor, sprung forward. “Oh, sir, you here! Have you any news?” She paused in some confusion. “You needn’t go on,” said Boston, “I never keep a lady waiting. I have a letter for you.” Theresa put out her hand quickly. “It must be from _him_!” “Yes, it’s from _him_. Your father tried hard to find it. He would give me both Jerusalem and Jericho if he knew I had it. You see I calculated on being searched, and hid the paper.” “You did?” “Yes, I did. Have you got such a thing as a knife around here? Thank you, Katrine. What a famous little house-keeper you’ll make, having every thing so handy about you! Take hold of my old cap and help me.”