152
GILLIAN.
something; but we had not driven a mile before she took her hand out of its muff, and turning round, held it out to Sarah, smiling so sweetly in the starlight, and saying, in her low, mild way.
“«+Tg not this a lovely evening, Serah?’
“Then Sarah stooped forward and pretended to whisper, while she kissed Hetty on the cheek, and insisted on changing seats, which Hetty would not think of, till young Bentley leaned for- ward and whispered something, which I could not hear in the clash of the bells, but Hetty got up pleasantly, while Sarah threw back the buffalo robes, and sprang over into the seat at my side, laughing gleefully all the time, and flinging her arms around me to steady herself. Then we all settled down again, and I started the horses with a crack of the whip that set them off like lightning; and in less than ten minutes we were sitting round a great wood fire in Deacon Warner's west room, with a tray of red cheeked apples glowing on the hearth, and @ great stone pitcher of ginger cider hissing ander the red-hot poker that the deacon was warming it up with.
“Bentley rather hung back when the deacon handed round the cider-mug covered with yaller froth, but after he fairly took hold there was no stopping him.
“I dare say you wouldn’t have thought much of that evening; but I consider it about as near heaven as a feller is likely to reach on this side the grave. There was my two sisters, looking like angels in the fire-light; and there was the gal I loved better than my own life, holding the tray of apples on ber knee, while she tried one, and then another, with her thumb and finger, searching out the mellowest for them; and there was Mrs. Warner, knitting away for dear life by a little round candle-stand, and Deacon Warner on both knees in the corner cracking but-nuts with a big hammer, which he handed round after the apples and cider. Yes, Gillian, that was a pleasant evening, take it all together; we counted apple-seeds, and swung red parings three times round, dropping them into letters on ‘the floor; mine always would turn out an H. Our Hannah was named after her mother, you know—and both Sarab’s and Hetty’s were exact B's, at which both blushed and looked at each other eo shyly. It really was a very plensant evening, especially after I went back the last time, after settling the rest in the sleigh, and teok a last drink of cider, and a kiss that was werth ten thousand times as much. Certainly it was one of the pleasantest evenings that I ever spent.
A little while after this Mr. Bentley went down to New York; and, in a week or two, Hetty started down there on a visit to an aunt of ours in the city; she only went for a visit of two er three weeks, but, somehow, it was spring before she was ready to come kome, and I remember very well the daffadowndillas were out in the garden before she got back. If it hadn’t been for my wedding I don't believe that she would have came back s0 soon, for she seemed restless and bomesick enough all the spring.
‘1 forgot to tell you that Sarah went to visit her sunt late in the winter, and came home with Hetty. She, too, was a good bit sobered down, and all her sparkling cheerfulnesa died out. I couldn’t help seeing, st times, that she cried a good deal in the night, for her oyes were red, and she looked worn and tired of mornings, as if something lay heavy on ber mind.
“T asked about Mr. Bentley, and if the gals had seen him often; but they seemed shy of the subject, and I calculated that he hadn’t been sociable in the city, as they had a right to ex- pect he would be. Altogether everything at home seemed to go wrong, and if it hado’t been a busy time with me just before my wedding, I should have insisted on knowing the reason why.
‘But I got married, and while my young wife was getting ready for housekeeping, I spent purty much all the time at Deacon Warner's, so happy myself, that I near about forgot the gals. Something happened, though, that troubled me alittle. The post-office was about half way be- tween our house and Dencon Warner's, and one morning, when I was riding home, bright and early, who should I see but our Sarah, with her white sun-bonnet and shawl, s going into the post-office with a letter in her hand. She came out after an minute, and, before I could ride up, turned into a foot-path that gave her a short cut across the meadows. I always stopped at the office for letters and papers as I went along, and ao rede up to the door, calling out to know if there was anything for our folks. The post- master came to the door with a paper in his hand and a letter, which he handed to me say- ing,
“*Mr, Hart, I can’t quite make this direction out: it seems to be for New York city, but the writing isn’t clear.’
“1 took the letter. It was directed to William Bentley, Esq., in Sarah’s handwriting, but I could hardly make it out; the letters seemed to have been tumbled down over the paper.
“The whole thing took me by surprise. What on ‘arth could Sarah be writing to that young feller about? And why didn’t she wait and send
