"Ahem--well, I cannot tell, sure. You know, sir, we have to know a person before we can love him. But I must confess I do feel very favorably inclined towards you." "Bless you, my dear friend; I may call you so now, until I claim a nearer, dearer title. If you are now kindly disposed, I feel sure of ultimate success. I feared the difference in our ages might be an objection." "No, no; I do not see why it need. It is well to have a little advantage on one side or the other. But, my dear friend, should you fail to secure the affection, you will not think unkindly of your friend." "No; only let me have a few weeks, with your continued favor, and I ask no more. Many, many thanks," and, seizing her hand, he pressed it to his lips. "Will you not now allow me to see my fair Henrietta?" he asked. "Oh, I have been a little flurried, and did forget it was quite dark. I'll light the lamp in a minute." Etta's sweet voice was now heard humming a song in the next room. She had returned from her visit, and as Miss Henrietta succeeded in lighting the lamp, her bright face peeped in the door, and she said: "Aunty, Squire Sloughman is coming up the walk." "Bless her sweet face! There is my Henrietta now!" exclaimed the visitor, and before the shade was adjusted on the lamp, she was alone. The handsome stranger was in the next room with--Etta! A little scream, an exclamation of surprise from Etta, followed by the deep, manly voice of Mr. Linton, saying: "Dearest Henrietta, I have your aunt's permission to win you, if I can." "Henrietta! Little baby Etta! Sure enough, that was her name, too. What an idiot she had been!" thought Henrietta, the elder. "Oh! she hoped she had not exposed her mistake! Maybe he had not understood her!" But Squire Sloughman was waiting for some one to admit him, and she had no more time to think over the recent conversation, or to determine whether or not Mr. Linton was aware of her blunder. Squire Sloughman was cordially welcomed, and after being seated a while, observed: "You have got a visitor, I see," pointing to the stranger's hat lying on the table beside him. "Yes, Etta's got company. The stranger that boarded at Miss Plimpkins' last summer. He sent Etta a valentine, and has now come himself," returned Miss Henrietta. "A valentine! what for?" "To ask her to have him, surely. And I suppose he'll be taking her off to town to live, pretty soon." "And you, what will you do? It will be awful lonely here for you," said the squire. "Oh! he's coming out now," thought Miss Henrietta. And she gave him a better chance by her reply: "Well, I don't know that anybody cares for that. I guess no one will run away with me." But she was disappointed; it came not, what she hoped for, just then. Yet the Squire seemed very uneasy. At length he said: "I got a valentine myself, to-day." "You! What sort of a one? Comic, funny, or real in earnest?" asked Miss Henrietta.