“oh, hetta, you should have looked at those drawings. he is so clever!” said susan.

“i don’t know that they would have done me much good,” replied hetta.

“good! well, they’d do me more good than a long sermon, i know,” said susan; “except on a sunday, of course,” she added apologetically. this was an ill-tempered attack both on hetta and hetta’s admirer. but then why had hetta been so snappish?

“i’m sure he’s a wolf;” thought hetta as she went to bed.

“what a very clever young man he is!” thought susan to herself as she pulled the warm clothes round about her shoulders and ears.

“well that certainly was an improvement,” thought aaron as he went through the same operation, with a stronger feeling of self-approbation than he had enjoyed for some time past.

in the course of the next fortnight the family arrangements all altered themselves. unless when beckard was there aaron would sit in the widow’s place, the widow would take susan’s chair, and the two girls would be opposite. and then dunn would read to them; not sermons, but passages from shakspeare, and byron, and longfellow. “he reads much better than mr. beckard,” susan had said one night. “of course you’re a competent judge!” had been hetta’s retort. “i mean that i like it better,” said susan. “it’s well that all people don’t think alike,” replied hetta.

and then there was a deal of talking. the widow herself, as unconscious in this respect as her youngest daughter, certainly did find that a little variety was agreeable on those long winter nights; and talked herself with unaccustomed freedom. and beckard came there oftener and talked very much. when he was there the two young men did all the talking, and they pounded each other immensely. but still there grew up a sort of friendship between them.

“mr. beckard seems quite to take to him,” said mrs. bell to her eldest daughter.

“it is his great good nature, mother,” replied hetta.

it was at the end of the second month when aaron took another step in advance—a perilous step. sometimes on evenings he still went on with his drawing for an hour or so; but during three or four evenings he never asked any one to look at what he was doing. on one friday he sat over his work till late, without any reading or talking at all; so late that at last mrs. bell said, “if you’re going to sit much longer, mr. dunn, i’ll get you to put out the candles.” thereby showing, had he known it or had she, that the mother’s confidence in the young man was growing fast. hetta knew all about it, and dreaded that the growth was too quick.

“i’ve finished now,” said aaron; and he looked carefully at the cardboard on which he had been washing in his water-colours. “i’ve finished now.” he then hesitated a moment; but ultimately he put the card into his portfolio and carried it up to his bedroom. who does not perceive that it was intended as a present to susan bell?

the question which aaron asked himself that night, and which he hardly knew how to answer, was this. should he offer the drawing to susan in the presence of her mother and sister, or on some occasion when they two might be alone together? no such occasion had ever yet occurred, but aaron thought that it might probably be brought about. but then he wanted to make no fuss about it. his first intention had been to chuck the drawing lightly across the table when it was completed, and so make nothing of it. but he had finished it with more care than he had at first intended; and then he had hesitated when he had finished it. it was too late now for that plan of chucking it over the table.

on the saturday evening when he came down from his room, mr. beckard was there, and there was no opportunity that night. on the sunday, in conformity with a previous engagement, he went to hear mr. beckard preach, and walked to and from meeting with the family. this pleased mrs. bell, and they were all very gracious that afternoon. but sunday was no day for the picture.

on monday the thing had become of importance to him. things always do when they are kept over. before tea that evening when he came down mrs. bell and susan only were in the room. he knew hetta for his foe, and therefore determined to use this occasion.

“miss susan,” he said, stammering somewhat, and blushing too, poor fool! “i have done a little drawing which i want you to accept,” and he put his portfolio down on the table.

“oh! i don’t know,” said susan, who had seen the blush.

mrs. bell had seen the blush also, and pursed her mouth up, and looked grave. had there been no stammering and no blush, she might have thought nothing of it.

aaron saw at once that his little gift was not to go down smoothly. he was, however, in for it now, so he picked it out from among the other papers in the case and brought it over to susan. he endeavoured to hand it to her with an air of indifference, but i cannot say that he succeeded.

it was a very pretty, well-finished, water-coloured drawing, representing still the same bridge, but with more adjuncts. in susan’s eyes it was a work of high art. of pictures probably she had seen but little, and her liking for the artist no doubt added to her admiration. but the more she admired it and wished for it, the stronger was her feeling that she ought not to take it.

poor susan! she stood for a minute looking at the drawing, but she said nothing; not even a word of praise. she felt that she was red in the face, and uncourteous to their lodger; but her mother was looking at her and she did not know how to behave herself.

mrs. bell put out her hand for the sketch, trying to bethink herself as she did so in what least uncivil way she could refuse the present. she took a moment to look at it collecting her thoughts, and as she did so her woman’s wit came to her aid.

“oh dear, mr. dunn, it is very pretty; quite a beautiful picture. i cannot let susan rob you of that. you must keep that for some of your own particular friends.”

“but i did it for her,” said aaron innocently.

susan looked down at the ground, half pleased at the declaration. the drawing would look very pretty in a small gilt frame put over her dressing-table. but the matter now was altogether in her mother’s hands.

“i am afraid it is too valuable, sir, for susan to accept.”

“it is not valuable at all,” said aaron, declining to take it back from the widow’s hand.

“oh, i am quite sure it is. it is worth ten dollars at least—or twenty,” said poor mrs. bell, not in the very best taste. but she was perplexed, and did not know how to get out of the scrape. the article in question now lay upon the table-cloth, appropriated by no one, and at this moment hetta came into the room.

“it is not worth ten cents,” said aaron, with something like a frown on his brow. “but as we had been talking about the bridge, i thought miss susan would accept it.”

“accept what?” said hetta. and then her eye fell upon the drawing and she took it up.

“it is beautifully done,” said mrs. bell, wishing much to soften the matter; perhaps the more so that hetta the demure was now present. “i am telling mr. dunn that we can’t take a present of anything so valuable.”

“oh dear no,” said hetta. “it wouldn’t be right.”

it was a cold frosty evening in march, and the fire was burning brightly on the hearth. aaron dunn took up the drawing quietly—very quietly—and rolling it up, as such drawings are rolled, put it between the blazing logs. it was the work of four evenings, and his chef-d’?uvre in the way of art.

susan, when she saw what he had done, burst out into tears. the widow could very readily have done so also, but she was able to refrain herself, and merely exclaimed—“oh, mr. dunn!”

“if mr. dunn chooses to burn his own picture, he has certainly a right to do so,” said hetta.

aaron immediately felt ashamed of what he had done; and he also could have cried, but for his manliness. he walked away to one of the parlour-windows, and looked out upon the frosty night. it was dark, but the stars were bright, and he thought that he should like to be walking fast by himself along the line of rails towards balston. there he stood, perhaps for three minutes. he thought it would be proper to give susan time to recover from her tears.

“will you please to come to your tea, sir?” said the soft voice of mrs. bell.

he turned round to do so, and found that susan was gone. it was not quite in her power to recover from her tears in three minutes. and then the drawing had been so beautiful! it had been done expressly for her too! and there had been something, she knew not what, in his eye as he had so declared. she had watched him intently over those four evenings’ work, wondering why he did not show it, till her feminine curiosity had become rather strong. it was something very particular, she was sure, and she had learned that all that precious work had been for her. now all that precious work was destroyed. how was it possible that she should not cry for more than three minutes?

the others took their meal in perfect silence, and when it was over the two women sat down to their work. aaron had a book which he pretended to read, but instead of reading he was bethinking himself that he had behaved badly. what right had he to throw them all into such confusion by indulging in his passion? he was ashamed of what he had done, and fancied that susan would hate him. fancying that, he began to find at the same time that he by no means hated her.

at last hetta got up and left the room. she knew that her sister was sitting alone in the cold, and hetta was affectionate. susan had not been in fault, and therefore hetta went up to console her.

“mrs. bell,” said aaron, as soon as the door was closed, “i beg your pardon for what i did just now.”

“oh, sir, i’m so sorry that the picture is burnt,” said poor mrs. bell.

“the picture does not matter a straw,” said aaron. “but i see that i have disturbed you all,—and i am afraid i have made miss susan unhappy.”

“she was grieved because your picture was burnt,” said mrs. bell, putting some emphasis on the “your,” intending to show that her daughter had not regarded the drawing as her own. but the emphasis bore another meaning; and so the widow perceived as soon as she had spoken.

“oh, i can do twenty more of the same if anybody wanted them,” said aaron. “if i do another like it, will you let her take it, mrs. bell?—just to show that you have forgiven me, and that we are friends as we were before?”

was he, or was he not a wolf? that was the question which mrs. bell scarcely knew how to answer. hetta had given her voice, saying he was lupine. mr. beckard’s opinion she had not liked to ask directly. mr. beckard she thought would probably propose to hetta; but as yet he had not done so. and, as he was still a stranger in the family, she did not like in any way to compromise susan’s name. indirectly she had asked the question, and, indirectly also, mr. beckard’s answer had been favourable.

“but it mustn’t mean anything, sir,” was the widow’s weak answer, when she had paused on the question for a moment.

“oh no, of course not,” said aaron, joyously, and his face became radiant and happy. “and i do beg your pardon for burning it; and the young ladies’ pardon too.” and then he rapidly got out his cardboard, and set himself to work about another bridge. the widow, meditating many things in her heart, commenced the hemming of a handkerchief.

in about an hour the two girls came back to the room and silently took their accustomed places. aaron hardly looked up, but went on diligently with his drawing. this bridge should be a better bridge than that other. its acceptance was now assured. of course it was to mean nothing. that was a matter of course. so he worked away diligently, and said nothing to anybody.

when they went off to bed the two girls went into the mother’s room. “oh, mother, i hope he is not very angry,” said susan.

“angry!” said hetta, “if anybody should be angry, it is mother. he ought to have known that susan could not accept it. he should never have offered it.”

“but he’s doing another,” said mrs. bell.

“not for her,” said hetta.

“yes he is,” said mrs. bell, “and i have promised that she shall take it.” susan as she heard this sank gently into the chair behind her, and her eyes became full of tears. the intimation was almost too much for her.

“oh, mother!” said hetta.

“but i particularly said that it was to mean nothing.”

“oh, mother, that makes it worse.”

why should hetta interfere in this way, thought susan to herself. had she interfered when mr. beckard gave hetta a testament bound in morocco? had not she smiled, and looked gratified, and kissed her sister, and declared that phineas beckard was a nice dear man, and by far the most elegant preacher at the springs? why should hetta be so cruel?

“i don’t see that, my dear,” said the mother. hetta would not explain before her sister, so they all went to bed.

on the thursday evening the drawing was finished. not a word had been said about it, at any rate in his presence, and he had gone on working in silence. “there,” said he, late on the thursday evening, “i don’t know that it will be any better if i go on daubing for another hour. there, miss susan; there’s another bridge. i hope that will neither burst with the frost, nor yet be destroyed by fire,” and he gave it a light flip with his fingers and sent it skimming over the table.

susan blushed and smiled, and took it up. “oh, it is beautiful,” she said. “isn’t it beautifully done, mother?” and then all the three got up to look at it, and all confessed that it was excellently done.

“and i am sure we are very much obliged to you,” said susan after a pause, remembering that she had not yet thanked him.

“oh, it’s nothing,” said he, not quite liking the word “we.” on the following day he returned from his work to saratoga about noon. this he had never done before, and therefore no one expected that he would be seen in the house before the evening. on this occasion, however, he went straight thither, and as chance would have it, both the widow and her elder daughter were out. susan was there alone in charge of the house.

he walked in and opened the parlour door. there she sat, with her feet on the fender, with her work unheeded on the table behind her, and the picture, aaron’s drawing, lying on her knees. she was gazing at it intently as he entered, thinking in her young heart that it possessed all the beauties which a picture could possess.

“oh, mr. dunn,” she said, getting up and holding the telltale sketch behind the skirt of her dress.

“miss susan, i have come here to tell your mother that i must start for new york this afternoon and be there for six weeks, or perhaps longer.”

“mother is out,” said she; “i’m so sorry.”

“is she?” said aaron.

“and hetta too. dear me. and you’ll be wanting dinner. i’ll go and see about it.”