Thereupon Sally pulled off her mittens and crossed her forefingers, an action which her companions understood--in combination with the mysterious initials--to be the rude, primitive symbol of a squint. Gilbert looked annoyed, but before he could reply, Sally let go the rein in order to put on her mittens, and the blinded mare quickly dropping her head, the rein slipped instantly to the animal's ears. The latter perceived her advantage, and began snuffing along the edges of the road in a deliberate search for spring grass. In vain Sally called and kicked; the mare provokingly preserved her independence. Finally, a piteous appeal to Gilbert, who had pretended not to notice the dilemma, and was a hundred yards in advance, was Sally's only resource. The two halted and enjoyed her comical helplessness. “That's enough, Gilbert,” said Martha Deane, presently, “go now and pick up the rein.” He rode back, picked it up, and handed it to Sally without speaking. “Gilbert,” she said, with a sudden demure change of tone, as they rode on to where Miss Deane was waiting, “come and take supper with us, at home. Martha has promised. You've hardly been to see us in a month.” “You know how much I have to do, Sally,” he answered. “It isn't only that, to-day being a Saturday; but I've promised mother to be at home by dark, and fetch a quarter of tea from the store.” “When you've once promised, I know, oxen couldn't pull you the other way.” “I don't often see your mother, Gilbert,” said Martha Deane; “she is well?” “Thank you, Martha,--too well, and yet not well enough.” “What do you mean?” “I mean,” he answered, “that she does more than she has strength to do. If she had less she would be forced to undertake less; if she had more, she would be equal to her undertaking.” “I understand you now. But you should not allow her to go on in that way; you should”-- What Miss Deane would have said must remain unwritten. Gilbert's eyes were upon her, and held her own; perhaps a little more color came into her face, but she did not show the slightest embarrassment. A keen observer might have supposed that either a broken or an imperfect relation existed between the two, which the gentleman was trying to restore or complete without the aid of words; and that, furthermore, while the lady was the more skilful in the use of that silent language, neither rightly understood the other. By this time they were ascending the hill from Redley Creek to Kennett Square. Martha Deane had thus far carried the brush carelessly in her right hand; she now rolled it into a coil and thrust it into a large velvet reticule which hung from the pommel of her saddle. A few dull orange streaks in the overcast sky, behind them, denoted sunset, and a raw, gloomy twilight crept up from the east.