as he came into the house.  “My own Susan, you do love me? do say so to me once.”  And he contrived to slip his arm round her waist.  “Yes,” she whispered; but she slipped like an eel from his hands, and left him only preparing himself for a kiss.  And then when she got to her room, half frightened, she clasped her hands together, and bethought herself that she did really love him with a strength and depth of love which filled her whole existence.  Why could she not have told him something of all this?

And so the few days of his second sojourn at Saratoga passed away, not altogether satisfactorily.  It was settled that he should return to New York on Saturday night, leaving Saratoga on that evening; and as the Beckards—Hetta was already regarded quite as a Beckard—were to be back to dinner on that day, Mrs. Bell would have an opportunity of telling her wondrous tale.  It might be well that Mr. Beckard should see Aaron before his departure.

On that Saturday the Beckards did arrive just in time for dinner.  It may be imagined that Susan’s appetite was not very keen, nor her manner very collected.  But all this passed by unobserved in the importance attached to the various Beckard arrangements which came under discussion.  Ladies and gentlemen circumstanced as were Hetta and Mr. Beckard are perhaps a little too apt to think that their own affairs are paramount.  But after dinner Susan vanished at once, and when Hetta prepared to follow her, desirous of further talk about matrimonial arrangements, her mother stopped her, and the disclosure was made.

“Proposed to her!” said Hetta, who perhaps thought that one marriage in a family was enough at a time.

“Yes, my love—and he did it, I must say, in a very honourable way, telling her not to make any answer till she had spoken to me;—now that was very nice; was it not, Phineas?”  Mrs. Bell had become very anxious that Aaron should not be voted a wolf.

“And what has been said to him since?” asked the discreet Phineas.

“Why—nothing absolutely decisive.”  Oh, Mrs. Bell!  “You see I know nothing as to his means.”

“Nothing at all,” said Hetta.

“He is a man that will always earn his bread,” said Mr. Beckard; and Mrs. Bell blessed him in her heart for saying it.

“But has he been encouraged?” asked Hetta.

“Well; yes, he has,” said the widow.

“Then Susan I suppose likes him?” asked Phineas.

“Well; yes, she does,” said the widow.  And the conference ended in a resolution that Phineas Beckard should have a conversation with Aaron Dunn, as to his worldly means and position; and that he, Phineas, should decide whether Aaron might, or might not be at once accepted as a lover, according to the tenor of that conversation.  Poor Susan was not told anything of all this.  “Better not,” said Hetta the demure.  “It will only flurry her the more.”  How would she have liked it, if without consulting her, they had left it to Aaron to decide whether or no she might marry Phineas?

They knew where on the works Aaron was to be found, and thither Mr. Beckard rode after dinner.  We need not narrate at length the conference between the young men.  Aaron at once declared that he had nothing but what he made as an engineer, and explained that he held no permanent situation on the line.  He was well paid at that present moment, but at the end of summer he would have to look for employment.

“Then you can hardly marry quite at present,” said the discreet minister.

“Perhaps not quite immediately.”

“And long engagements are never wise,” said the other.

“Three or four months,” suggested Aaron.  But Mr. Beckard shook his head.

The afternoon at Mrs. Bell’s house was melancholy.  The final decision of the three judges was as follows.  There was to be no engagement; of course no correspondence.  Aaron was to be told that it would be better that he should get lodgings elsewhere when he returned; but that he would be allowed to visit at Mrs. Bell’s house,—and at Mrs. Beckard’s, which was very considerate.  If he should succeed in getting a permanent appointment, and if he and Susan still held the same mind, why then—&c. &c.  Such was Susan’s fate, as communicated to her by Mrs. Bell and Hetta.  She sat still and wept when she heard it; but she did not complain.  She had always felt that Hetta would be against her.

“Mayn’t I see him, then?” she said through her tears.

Hetta thought she had better not.  Mrs. Bell thought she might.  Phineas decided that they might shake hands, but only in full conclave.  There was to be no lovers’ farewell.  Aaron was to leave the house at half-past five; but before he went Susan should be called down.  Poor Susan!  She sat down and bemoaned herself; uncomplaining, but very sad.

Susan was soft, feminine, and manageable.  But Aaron Dunn was not very soft, was especially masculine, and in some matters not easily manageable.  When Mr. Beckard in the widow’s presence—Hetta had retired in obedience to her lover—informed him of the court’s decision, there came over his face the look which he had worn when he burned the picture.  “Mrs. Bell,” he said, “had encouraged his engagement; and he did not understand why other people should now come and disturb it.”

“Not an engagement, Aaron,” said Mrs. Bell piteously.

“He was able and willing to work,” he said, “and knew his profession.  What young man of his age had done better than he had?” and he glanced round at them with perhaps more pride than was quite becoming.

Then Mr. Beckard spoke out, very wisely no doubt, but perhaps a little too much at length.  Sons and daughters, as well as fathers and mothers, will know very well what he said; so I need not repeat his words.  I cannot say that Aaron listened with much attention, but he understood perfectly what the upshot of it was.  Many a man understands the purport of many a sermon without listening to one word in ten.  Mr. Beckard meant to be kind in his manner; indeed was so, only that Aaron could not accept as kindness any interference on his part.

“I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Bell,” said he.  “I look upon myself as engaged to her.  And I look on her as engaged to me.  I tell you so fairly; and I believe that’s her mind as well as mine.”

“But, Aaron, you won’t try to see her—or to write to her,—not in secret; will you?”

“When I try to see her, I’ll come and knock at this door; and if I write to her, I’ll write to her full address by the post.  I never did and never will do anything in secret.”

“I know you’re good and honest,” said the widow with her handkerchief to her eyes.

“Then why do you separate us?” asked he, almost roughly.  “I suppose I may see her at any rate before I go.  My time’s nearly up now, I guess.”

And then Susan was called for, and she and Hetta came down together.  Susan crept in behind her sister.  Her eyes were red with weeping, and her appearance was altogether disconsolate.  She had had a lover for a week, and now she was to be robbed of him.

“Good-bye, Susan,” said Aaron, and he walked up to her without bashfulness or embarrassment.  Had they all been compliant and gracious to him he would have been as bashful as his love; but now his temper was hot.  “Good-bye, Susan,” and she took his hand, and he held hers till he had finished.  “And remember this, I look upon you as my promised wife, and I don’t fear that you’ll deceive me.  At any rate I shan’t deceive you.”

“Good-bye, Aaron,” she sobbed.

“Good-bye, and God bless you, my own darling!”  And then without saying a word to any one else, he turned his back upon them and went his way.

There had been something very consolatory, very sweet, to the poor girl in her lover’s last words.  And yet they had almost made her tremble.  He had been so