Martha Deane's voice was of that quality which compels an answer, and a courteous answer, from the surliest of mankind. It was not loud, it could scarcely be called musical; but every tone seemed to exhale freshness as of dew, and brightness as of morning. It was pure, slightly resonant; and all the accumulated sorrows of life could not have veiled its inherent gladness. It could never grow harsh, never be worn thin, or sound husky from weariness; its first characteristic would always be youth, and the joy of youth, though it came from the lips of age. Doubtless Gilbert Potter did not analyze the charm which it exercised upon him; it was enough that he felt and submitted to it. A few quiet remarks sufficed to draw from him the story of the chase, in all its particulars, and the lively interest in Martha Deane's face, the boisterous glee of Sally Fairthorn, with his own lurking sense of triumph, soon swept every gloomy line from his visage. His mouth relaxed from its set compression, and wore a winning sweetness; his eyes shone softly-bright, and a nimble spirit of gayety gave grace to his movements. “Fairly won, I must say!” exclaimed Miss Sally Fairthorn, when the narrative was finished. “And now, Gilbert, the brush?” “The brush?” “Who's to have it, I mean. Did you never get one before, as you don't seem to understand?” “Yes, I understand,” said he, in an indifferent tone; “it may be had for the asking.” “Then it's mine!” cried Sally, urging her heavy horse against him and making a clutch at his cap. But he leaned as suddenly away, and shot a length ahead, out of her reach. Miss Deane's horse, a light, spirited animal, kept pace with his. “Martha!” cried the disappointed damsel, “Martha! one of us must have it; ask him, you!” “No,” answered Martha, with her clear blue eyes fixed on Gilbert's face, “I will not ask.” He returned her gaze, and his eyes seemed to say: “Will you take it, knowing what the acceptance implies?” She read the question correctly; but of this he was not sure. Neither, if it were so, could he trust himself to interpret the answer. Sally had already resumed her place on his left, and he saw that the mock strife would be instantly renewed. With a movement so sudden as to appear almost ungracious, he snatched the brush from his cap and extended it to Martha Deane, without saying a word. If she hesitated, it was at least no longer than would be required in order to understand the action. Gilbert might either so interpret it, or suspect that she had understood the condition in his mind, and meant to signify the rejection thereof. The language of gestures is wonderfully rapid, and all that could be said by either, in this way, was over, and the brush in Martha Deane's hand, before Sally Fairthorn became aware of the transfer. “Well-done, Martha!” she exclaimed: “Don't let him have it again! Do you know to whom he would have given it: an A. and a W., with the look of an X,--so!”