the war, then he was eloquent, and I listened with pride. He said he must leave me at the call of his country, and I replied:
"Adam, I'll never stand in thy way."
One day Miriam Grant gave a party. It was then that our engagement became known, though what little bird whispered it I never knew, unless it was Cousin Sophia.
Dr. Hathaway was the first to congratulate me. The guests were all out of doors, and Friend Edward and I walked along together toward the summer-house in the garden. I suggested that it was a good time for the story he had promised to tell. He seemed to have forgotten the promise.
"What did thee mean that night when thee told me to be true to myself, Friend Edward? Thee didn't suspect what was on my mind?"
"I hope you pondered well my words," replied Friend Edward, without noticing my question. "You have been true to yourself? You are happy?"
"O very happy, indeed. Thee has no idea how pleased father is!"
"I suppose so. And you are pleased, too. Eve? Forgive me for asking: but you have no doubts?"
While he spoke he never looked at me, but straight at the sky.
"Doubts?" said I, affecting a confident tone; "not one."
"Then I am satisfied," replied Friend Edward, solemnly; but his face was so pale that it startled me, and there was a look in it that thrilled my heart strangely. I was never in my life less sure of anything than I was just then of my love for Adam Mott!
We had unconsciously strayed to some distance, and on our return I saw that Adam was displeased. As we walked home he undertook to chide me for being too trifling in my manners. His words were very gentle, but they roused me to anger.
"Adam Mott," said I, "thee may as well know first as last that I am not a saint. Thee need not attempt to control me! I shall never ask thy leave to talk with an old friend. Moreover, while I was walking with the doctor what was thee doing?"
Reading poetry with Miriam, for she had told me so.
Adam hastened to apologize, and tried to soothe me with tender words; but all he said only irritated me; his affection repelled me more than his anger.
Another week passed. I was growing wretched. Father thought my sobriety very commendable, and Adam liked me all the better for it.
He and father still talked of trade; but I fancied father was not as well satisfied as at first with Adam's business capacity; he told me he thought the young man was too fond of speculation; he didn't know but he "took after the Motts."
Adam was going home to Philadelphia to enlist with the young men of his own city. Why didn't he start? When he was fairly gone, at last, I drew a sigh of relief. It was downright wicked of me, but I could not help it!
"O Cousin Sophia," said I, one day, in an irrepressible burst of confidence, "I begin to be afraid I don't love Adam as well as I ought to."
"Well, dear," replied my experienced cousin, "it will be very different after you are married."
Reader, does thee perceive the sophistry of her views?
Friend Edward had grown estranged. I could not but observe it with pain. One evening he came to say good-by. He was going into the army as surgeon. Friend Edward! Ah, this struck home! I tried to conceal my distress. I had
