aaron began to swear that he could not possibly eat any dinner. he had dined once, and was going to dine again;—anything to keep her from going.

“but you must have something, mr. dunn,” and she walked towards the door.

but he put his back to it. “miss susan,” said he, “i guess i’ve been here nearly two months.”

“yes, sir, i believe you have,” she replied, shaking in her shoes, and not knowing which way to look.

“and i hope we have been good friends.”

“yes, sir,” said susan, almost beside herself as to what she was saying.

“i’m going away now, and it seems to be such a time before i’ll be back.”

“will it, sir?”

“six weeks, miss susan!” and then he paused, looking into her eyes, to see what he could read there. she leant against the table, pulling to pieces a morsel of half-ravelled muslin which she held in her hand; but her eyes were turned to the ground, and he could hardly see them.

“miss susan,” he continued, “i may as well speak out now as at another time.” he too was looking towards the ground, and clearly did not know what to do with his hands. “the truth is just this. i—i love you dearly, with all my heart. i never saw any one i ever thought so beautiful, so nice, and so good;—and what’s more, i never shall. i’m not very good at this sort of thing, i know; but i couldn’t go away from saratoga for six weeks and not tell you.” and then he ceased. he did not ask for any love in return. his presumption had not got so far as that yet. he merely declared his passion, leaning against the door, and there he stood twiddling his thumbs.

susan had not the slightest conception of the way in which she ought to receive such a declaration. she had never had a lover before; nor had she ever thought of aaron absolutely as a lover, though something very like love for him had been crossing over her spirit. now, at this moment, she felt that he was the beau-idéal of manhood, though his boots were covered with the railway mud, and though his pantaloons were tucked up in rolls round his ankles. he was a fine, well-grown, open-faced fellow, whose eye was bold and yet tender, whose brow was full and broad, and all his bearing manly. love him! of course she loved him. why else had her heart melted with pleasure when her mother said that that second picture was to be accepted?

but what was she to say? anything but the open truth; she well knew that. the open truth would not do at all. what would her mother say and hetta if she were rashly to say that? hetta, she knew, would be dead against such a lover, and of her mother’s approbation she had hardly more hope. why they should disapprove of aaron as a lover she had never asked herself. there are many nice things that seem to be wrong only because they are so nice. maybe that susan regarded a lover as one of them. “oh, mr. dunn, you shouldn’t.” that in fact was all that she could say.

“should not i?” said he. “well, perhaps not; but there’s the truth, and no harm ever comes of that. perhaps i’d better not ask you for an answer now, but i thought it better you should know it all. and remember this—i only care for one thing now in the world, and that is for your love.” and then he paused, thinking possibly that in spite of what he had said he might perhaps get some sort of an answer, some inkling of the state of her heart’s disposition towards him.

but susan had at once resolved to take him at his word when he suggested that an immediate reply was not necessary. to say that she loved him was of course impossible, and to say that she did not was equally so. she determined therefore to close at once with the offer of silence.

when he ceased speaking there was a moment’s pause, during which he strove hard to read what might be written on her down-turned face. but he was not good at such reading. “well, i guess i’ll go and get my things ready now,” he said, and then turned round to open the door.

“mother will be in before you are gone, i suppose,” said susan.

“i have only got twenty minutes,” said he, looking at his watch. “but, susan, tell her what i have said to you. goodbye.” and he put out his hand. he knew he should see her again, but this had been his plan to get her hand in his.

“good-bye, mr. dunn,” and she gave him her hand.

he held it tight for a moment, so that she could not draw it away,—could not if she would. “will you tell your mother?” he asked.

“yes,” she answered, quite in a whisper. “i guess i’d better tell her.” and then she gave a long sigh. he pressed her hand again and got it up to his lips.

“mr. dunn, don’t,” she said. but he did kiss it. “god bless you, my own dearest, dearest girl! i’ll just open the door as i come down. perhaps mrs. bell will be here.” and then he rushed up stairs.

but mrs. bell did not come in. she and hetta were at a weekly service at mr. beckard’s meeting-house, and mr. beckard it seemed had much to say. susan, when left alone, sat down and tried to think. but she could not think; she could only love. she could use her mind only in recounting to herself the perfections of that demigod whose heavy steps were so audible overhead, as he walked to and fro collecting his things and putting them into his bag.

and then, just when he had finished, she bethought herself that he must be hungry. she flew to the kitchen, but she was too late. before she could even reach at the loaf of bread he descended the stairs, with a clattering noise, and heard her voice as she spoke quickly to kate o’brien.

“miss susan,” he said, “don’t get anything for me, for i’m off.”

“oh, mr. dunn, i am so sorry. you’ll be so hungry on your journey,” and she came out to him in the passage.

“i shall want nothing on the journey, dearest, if you’ll say one kind word to me.”

again her eyes went to the ground. “what do you want me to say, mr. dunn?”

“say, god bless you, aaron.”

“god bless you, aaron,” said she; and yet she was sure that she had not declared her love. he however thought otherwise, and went up to new york with a happy heart.

things happened in the next fortnight rather quickly. susan at once resolved to tell her mother, but she resolved also not to tell hetta. that afternoon she got her mother to herself in mrs. bell’s own room, and then she made a clean breast of it.

“and what did you say to him, susan?”

“i said nothing, mother.”

“nothing, dear!”

“no, mother; not a word. he told me he didn’t want it.” she forgot how she had used his christian name in bidding god bless him.

“oh dear!” said the widow.

“was it very wrong?” asked susan.

“but what do you think yourself, my child?” asked mrs. bell after a while. “what are your own feelings.”

mrs. bell was sitting on a chair and susan was standing opposite to her against the post of the bed. she made no answer, but moving from her place, she threw herself into her mother’s arms, and hid her face on her mother’s shoulder. it was easy enough to guess what were her feelings.

“but, my darling,” said her mother, “you must not think that it is an engagement.”

“no,” said susan, sorrowfully.

“young men say those things to amuse themselves.” wolves, she would have said, had she spoken out her mind freely.

“oh, mother, he is not like that.”

the daughter contrived to extract a promise from the mother that hetta should not be told just at present. mrs. bell calculated that she had six weeks before her; as yet mr. beckard had not spoken out, but there was reason to suppose that he would do so before those six weeks would be over, and then she would be able to seek counsel from him.

mr. beckard spoke out at the end of six days, and hetta frankly accepted him. “i hope you’ll love your brother-in-law,” said she to susan.

“oh, i will indeed,” said susan; and in the softness of her heart at the moment she almost made up her mind to tell; but hetta was full of her own affairs, and thus it passed off.

it was then arranged that hetta should go and spend a week with mr. beckard’s parents. old mr. beckard was a farmer living near utica, and now that the match was declared and approved, it was thought well that hetta should know her future husband’s family. so she went for a week, and mr. beckard went with her. “he will be back in plenty of time for me to speak to him before aaron dunn’s six weeks are over,” said mrs. bell to herself.

but things did not go exactly as she expected. on the very morning after the departure of the engaged couple, there came a letter from aaron, saying that he would be at saratoga that very evening. the railway people had ordered him down again for some days’ special work; then he was to go elsewhere, and not to return to saratoga till june. “but he hoped,” so said the letter, “that mrs. bell would not turn him into the street even then, though the summer might have come, and her regular lodgers might be expected.”

“oh dear, oh dear!” said mrs. bell to herself, reflecting that she had no one of whom she could ask advice, and that she must decide that very day. why had she let mr. beckard go without telling him? then she told susan, and susan spent the day trembling. perhaps, thought mrs. bell, he will say nothing about it. in such case, however, would it not be her duty to say something? poor mother! she trembled nearly as much as susan.

it was dark when the fatal knock came at the door. the tea-things were already laid, and the tea-cake was already baked; for it would at any rate be necessary to give mr. dunn his tea. susan, when she heard the knock, rushed from her chair and took refuge up stairs. the widow gave a long sigh and settled her dress. kate o’brien with willing step opened the door, and bade her old friend welcome.

“how are the ladies?” asked aaron, trying to gather something from the face and voice of the domestic.

“miss hetta and mr. beckard be gone off to utica, just man-and-wife like! and so they are, more power to them.”

“oh indeed; i’m very glad,” said aaron—and so he was; very glad to have hetta the demure out of the way. and then he made his way into the parlour, doubting much, and hoping much.

mrs. bell rose from her chair, and tried to look grave. aaron glancing round the room saw that susan was not there. he walked straight up to the widow, and offered her his hand, which she took. it might be that susan had not thought fit to tell, and in such case it would not be right for him to compromise her; so he said never a word.

but the subject was too important to the mother to allow of her being silent when the young man stood before her. “oh, mr. dunn,” said she, “what is this you have been saying to susan?”

“i have asked her to be my wife,” said he, drawing himself up and looking her full in the face. mrs. bell’s heart was almost as soft as her daughter’s, and it was nearly gone; but at the moment she had nothing to say but, “oh dear, oh dear!”

“may i not call you mother?” said he, taking both her hands in his.

“oh dear—oh dear! but will you be good to her? oh, aaron dunn, if you deceive my child!”

in another quarter of an hour, susan was kneeling at her mother’s knee, with her face on her mother’s lap; the mother was wiping tears out of her eyes; and aaron was standing by holding one of the widow’s hands.

“you are my mother too, now,” said he. what would hetta and mr. beckard say, when they came back? but then he surely was not a wolf!

there were four or five days left for courtship before hetta and mr. beckard would return; four or five days during which susan might be happy, aaron triumphant, and mrs. bell nervous. days i have said, but after all it was only the evenings that were so left. every morning susan got up to give aaron his breakfast, but mrs. bell got up also. susan boldly declared her right to do so, and mrs. bell found no objection which she could urge.

but after that aaron was always absent till seven or eight in the evening, when he would return to his tea. then came the hour or two of lovers’ intercourse.

but they were very tame, those hours. the widow still felt an undefined fear that she was wrong, and though her heart yearned to know that her daughter was happy in the sweet happiness of accepted love, yet she dreaded to be too confident. not a word had been said about money matters; not a word of aaron dunn’s relatives. so she did not leave them by themselves, but waited with what patience she could for the return of her wise counsellors.

and then susan hardly knew how to behave herself with her accepted suitor. she felt that she was very happy; but perhaps she was most happy when she was thinking about him through the long day, assisting in fixing little things for his comfort, and waiting for his evening return. and as he sat there in the parlour, she could be happy then too, if she were but allowed to sit still and look at him,—not stare at him, but raise her eyes every now and again to his face for the shortest possible glance, as she had been used to do ever since he came there.

but he, unconscionable lover, wanted to hear her speak, was desirous of being talked to, and perhaps thought that he should by rights be allowed to sit by her, and hold her hand. no such privileges were accorded to him. if they had been alone together, walking side by side on the green turf, as lovers should walk, she would soon have found the use of her tongue,—have talked fast enough no doubt. under such circumstances, when a girl’s shyness has given way to real intimacy, there is in general no end to her power of chatting. but though there was much love between aaron and susan, there was as yet but little intimacy. and then, let a mother be ever so motherly—and no mother could have more of a mother’s tenderness than mrs. bell—still her presence must be a restraint. aaron was very fond of mrs. bell; but nevertheless he did sometimes wish that some domestic duty would take her out of the parlour for a few happy minutes. susan went out very often, but mrs. bell seemed to be a fixture.