"And not Merryheart; but you are not responsible. Merryheart is your real name--not Martha, who was 'cumbered,' you know." "But I _am_ 'cumbered,'" replied the girl with a laugh. "How, my dear madam?" asked the courteous Jacques. "By my satchel." "Ah! let me carry it for you." "No, no." "Why not?" "I won't trouble you." "No trouble in the world--I shall leave you in a street or two. Come!" And he took the satchel, and passing his cane through the handles, gracefully deposited it behind his shoulders, as a beggar does his bundle. The girl laughed heartily; and this seemed to afford the melancholy lover much satisfaction. "Do they teach laughing at the Reverend Mrs. White's?" he asked. "Laughing, sir?" "Yes; I thought you had been taking lessons." "Oh, sir!" "Come! no fine-lady airs. I never compliment--we are too intimate." And Jacques shifted his packet to the other shoulder. "Just go to the ball and laugh in that way," he said, "and you'll slay all the hearts in a circle of ten feet." The girl repeated the fatal ceremony with more energy than ever. The street echoed with it. "I'm going to the ball, sir," she said; "Bathurst--you know Bathurst--he says he will go with me." "Little innocent!" "Sir?" "I was reflecting, my dear little friend," said the melancholy Jacques, "upon the superiority of your sex before they reach the age of womanhood." "How, sir?" "Why, thus. Suppose I had addressed that question to a fine lady--'Are you going to the ball, madam?'--what would her reply have been?" "I don't know," laughed the girl, pushing back a stray lock from her forehead. "I'll tell you," continued Jacques. "With a negligent and careless air she would have said, 'Really, sir--I do not know--I have scarcely made up my mind--if I decide to go--I shall not go, however, I think--if I go, it will be with Mr. Blank--I have half promised him;' and so forth. How wearisome! You, on the contrary, my little friend, clap your hands and cry, 'Oh! I am going! Bathurst says he'll go with me!' Bathurst is a good boy; isn't he your sweetheart?" The girl blushed and laughed. "No, indeed, sir!" she said. "That is well; choose some elderly admirer, my dear child--like myself." The laughter was louder than ever. "It wouldn't do for you to have two," she said with a merry glance. Jacques recoiled. "Every body knows it!" he murmured ruefully. "They do so," replied the merry girl, who caught these half-uttered words; "but she's a very sweet lady." Jacques sighed. "Are you not tired, sir?" asked the girl. "No, no! my dear child; but I believe I must return your little bulrush receptacle, for yonder is my journey's end. Look, Sir Asinus beholds us--see! there at the window!" In fact, Sir Asinus was at his open window, inhaling the bright May morning joyously. "Sir Asinus? Who is he?" asked the girl, with a puzzled look. "The great rebel, who tried to assassinate Doctor Small and the Governer. Have you not heard of it?"