And so the shades of evening came, and the shades of evening deepened into night; and still she came not. Is it not enough that my mother should desert me? The clock struck nine. No hope! There, the bell rang! A soft tap on her door; not Alice’s merry rub-a-dub. A young slave and sister announced the cousin. Mary sprang to her feet: “I won’t see him,” she almost screamed; “tell him that!” cried she, advancing upon her late pupil in Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” with looks so fierce and gestures so vehement as to drive her back in alarm upon the door which she had just entered with a smile. “Yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am,” stammered the Pilgrim, fumbling over the door-knob in her confused effort to escape. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll tell him,” added she, courtesying herself out, and shutting the door softly behind her. “Hi!” half whispered, half thought she to herself, as she stood upon the landing, collecting her breath and her wits. “Hi, what de matter wid Miss Mary? Fore Gaud, I was afeard she was gwine to bite me, I was! What he done do, I wonder? Oh, I tell you. She done git tired o’ him a-comin’ round and a-comin’ round, and f’reverlahstin’ coughin’, and coughin’ and coughin’, same like one o’ dese here little fice-dogs what bark and bark and never tree nothin’, dough he do drive off de oder varmints dat you mought cotch; and no gal don’t like dat, be she white _or_ black. He’s a nice gent’mun, I don’t ’spute dat; but he _are_ powerful wizzened up, dat’s a fac’. Howsomdever, I ain’t got de heart to give him no sich message. A gent’mun is a gent’mun, for all dat, and I ain’t had no sich raisin’. Nebberdeless, I ain’t a-blamin’ Miss Mary. She tired o’ dat kind. Well, I likes ’em spry and sassy myself, I does, and I s’pose folks is folks, dough dey _be_ diff’ent colors. Ahem! Ahem!” She was nearing the parlor-door, and was clearing her throat for a polite paraphrase, when she saw the front door gently close. He had heard, and was gone. Mary never saw him again. When he died, about a year afterwards, she said that she had forgiven him; but I doubt if she knew her own heart. There are some things a woman can never pardon. Nor do I think that Alice has ever quite forgiven herself for her delay at this crisis. For she feels to this day, I suspect, that had she gone to see Mary that evening this story might have ended like a fairy-tale, with everybody happy, just as it fares in real life. But she waited till next morning.