nard had been talking; she was looking earnestly at him, and he felt sure that he had seen her face before. Catching his eye, she smiled: and, approaching him, said,—
"So, Mr. Norbourne does not choose to remember an old friend."
He started, for the voice was as familiar as the face.
"Lavinia Fenton!" exclaimed he,—"impossible!"
"Not at all impossible," replied the girl; "you know I never liked the country. I had a soul above plaiting cap borders, and picking out false stitches in my lady's embroidery; so, finding that there was no chance of coming to London—you false-hearted man!—with you and my young lady, in a coach and four, I tried if a cart would not do as well."
There was something in this abrupt allusion to the treasured and hidden past, that at once shocked and silenced Norbourne. He was annoyed to find that his heart's sweetest secret was in the possession of one so little likely to keep it; and who, from the very
