Annie did not answer his letter, but Messrs. Howe & Hummel did, and Gavin soon found himself the centre of a breach of promise trial, with damages laid at fifty thousand dollars. All his fine poetical love letters were in the newspapers; he was ashamed to look men and women in the face; he suffered a constant pillory for weeks; through his vanity, his self-consciousness, his egotism he was perpetually wounded. But pretty Annie Riley was the object of public pity and interest, and she really seemed to enjoy her notoriety. The verdict was righteously enough in her favor. The jury gave her ten thousand dollars, and all expenses, and Gavin Burns was a ruined man. His eleven years savings only amounted to nine thousand dollars, and for the balance he was compelled to sell his furniture and give notes payable out of his next year's salary. He wept like a child as he signed these miserable vouchers for his folly, and for some days was completely prostrated by the evil he had called unto himself. Then the necessities of his position compelled him to go to work again, though it was with a completely broken spirit. "I'm getting on to forty," he said to his sister, "and I am beginning the world over again! One woman has given me a disappointment that I will carry to the grave; and another woman is laughing at me, for she has got all my saved siller, and more too; forbye, she is like to marry Bob Severs and share it with him. Then I have them weary notes to meet beyond all. There never was a man so badly used as I have been!" No one pitied him much. Whatever his acquaintances said to his face he knew right well their private opinion was that he had received _just what he deserved_. AN ONLY OFFER. "Aunt Phoebe, were you ever pretty?" "When I was sixteen I was considered so. I was very like you then, Julia. I am forty-three now, remember." "Did you ever have an offer--an offer of marriage, I mean, aunt?" "No. Well, that is not true; I did have one offer." "And you refused it?" "No." "Then he died, or went away?" "No." "Or deserted you?" "No." "Then you deceived him, I suppose?" "I did not." "What ever happened, then? Was he poor, or crippled or something dreadful" "He was rich and handsome." "Suppose you tell me about him." "I never talk about him to any one." "Did it happen at the old place?" "Yes, Julia. I never left Ryelands until I was thirty. This happened when I was sixteen." "Was he a farmer's son in the neighborhood?" "He was a fine city gentleman." "Oh, aunt, how interesting! Put down your embroidery and tell me about it; you cannot see to work longer." Perhaps after so many years of silence a sudden longing for sympathy and confidence seized the elder lady, for she let her work fall from her hands, and smiling sadly, said: