Only imagine, if the Hecate had but seen Jonathan's lit-up looks, or Grace's down-cast blushes; for it really slipped my observation to record that there were blushes, and probably some cause for them when the keep-sake was given and accepted; only conceive if the step-mother had heard Jonathan's afterward soliloquy, when he was watching pretty Grace as she tripped away--and how much he seemed to think of her eyes and eye-lashes! I am reasonably fearful, had she heard and seen all this--Poll Acton's nails might have possibly drawn blood from the cheeks of Jonathan Floyd.

As it was, the little god of love kindly warded from his votaries the coming of so crabbed an antagonist.
Grace has now reached home again, blessing her overruling stars to have escaped notice so entirely both in going and returning; for the mother was hard at washing near the well, having got in half an hour before, and father has not yet left off digging in his garden.

So she crept up stairs quietly, put away her Sunday best, and is just dropping on her knees beside her truckle-bed, to speak of all her sorrows to her Heavenly friend, and to thank him for the kindness He had raised her in an earthly one.

She then, with no small trepidation, took out of her tucker, just below those withered snow-drops, the crumpled bit of paper that held Jonathan's parting gift.

It was surprising how her tucker heaved; she could hardly get at the parcel.