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.

Once for a moment he did find his love alone, immediately 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 bold, and stern, and confident.  He had
seemed so utterly to defy the impregnable discretion of Mr. Beckard,
so to despise the demure propriety of Hetta.  But of this she felt
sure, when she came to question her heart, that she could never,
never, never cease to love him better than all the world beside.
She would wait--patiently if she could find patience--and then, if
he deserted her, she would die.

In another month Hetta became Mrs. Beckard.  Susan brisked up a
little for the occasion, and looked very pretty as bridesmaid.  She
was serviceable too in arranging household matters, hemming linen
and sewing table-cloths; though of course in these matters she did
not do a tenth of what Hetta did.

Then the summer came, the Saratoga summer of July, August, and
September, during which the widow's house was full; and Susan's
hands saved the pain of her heart, for she was forced into
occupation.  Now that Hetta was gone to her own duties, it was
necessary that Susan's part in the household should be more
prominent.

Aaron did not come back to his work at Saratoga.  Why he did not
they could not then learn.  During the whole long summer they heard
not a word of him nor from him; and then when the cold winter months
came and their boarders had left them, Mrs. Beckard congratulated
her sister in that she had given no further encouragement to a lover
who cared so little for her.  This was very hard to bear.  But Susan
did bear it.

That winter was very sad.  They learned nothing of Aaron Dunn till
about January; and then they heard that he was doing very well.  He
was engaged on the Erie trunk line, was paid highly, and was much
esteemed.  And yet he neither came nor sent!  "He has an excellent
situation," their informant told them.  "And a permanent one?" asked
the widow.  "Oh, yes, no doubt," said the gentleman, "for I happen
to know that they count greatly on him."  And yet he sent no word of
love.

After that the winter became very sad indeed.  Mrs. Bell thought it
to be her duty now to teach her daughter that in all probability she
would see Aaron Dunn no more.  It was open to him to leave her
without being absolutely a wolf.  He had been driven from the house
when he was poor, and they had no right to expect that he would
return, now that he had made some rise in the world.  "Men do amuse
themselves in that way," the widow tried to teach her.

"He is not like that, mother," she said again.

"But they do not think so much of these things as we do," urged the
mother.

"Don't they?" said Susan, oh, so sorrowfully; and so through the
whole long winter months she became paler and paler, and thinner and
thinner.

And then Hetta tried to console her with religion, and that perhaps
did not make things any better.  Religious consolation is the best
cure for all griefs; but it must not be looked for specially with
regard to any individual sorrow.  A religious man, should he become
bankrupt through the misfortunes of the world, will find true
consolation in his religion even for that sorrow.  But a bankrupt,
who has not thought much of such things, will hardly find solace by
taking up religion for that special occasion.

And Hetta perhaps was hardly prudent in her attempts.  She thought
that it was wicked in Susan to grow thin and pale for love of Aaron
Dunn, and she hardly hid her thoughts.  Susan was not sure but that
it might be wicked, but this doubt in no way tended to make her
plump or rosy.  So that in those days she found no comfort in her
sister.

But her mother's pity and soft love did ease her sufferings, though
it could not make them cease.  Her mother did not tell her that she
was wicked, or bid her read long sermons, or force her to go oftener
to the meeting-house.

"He will never come again, I think," she said one day, as with a
shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she leant with her head upon her
mother's bosom.

"My own darling," said the mother, pressing her child closely to her
side.

"You think he never will, eh, mother?"  What could Mrs. Bell say?
In her heart of hearts she did not think he ever would come again.

"No, my child.  I do not think he will."  And then the hot tears ran
down, and the sobs came thick and frequent.

"My darling, my darling!" exclaimed the mother; and they wept
together.

"Was I wicked to love him at the first," she asked that night.

"No, my child; you were not wicked at all.  At least I think not."

"Then why--"  Why was he sent away?  It was on her tongue to ask
that question; but she paused and spared her mother.  This was as
they were going to bed.  The next morning Susan did not get up.  She
was not ill, she said; but weak and weary.  Would her mother let her
lie that day?  And then Mrs. Bell went down alone to her room, and
sorrowed with all her heart for the sorrow of her child.  Why, oh
why, had she driven away from her door-sill the love of an honest
man?

On the next morning Susan again did not get up;--nor did she hear,
or if she heard she did not recognise, the step of the postman who
brought a letter to the door.  Early, before the widow's breakfast,
the postman came, and the letter which he brought was as follows:-


"MY DEAR MRS. BELL,

"I have now got a permanent situation on the Erie line, and the
salary is enough for myself and a wife.  At least I think so, and I
hope you will too.  I shall be down at Saratoga to-morrow evening,
and I hope neither Susan nor you will refuse to receive me.

"Yours affectionately,

"AARON DUNN."


That was all.  It was very short, and did not contain one word of
love; but it made the widow's heart leap for joy.  She was rather
afraid that Aaron was angry, he wrote so curtly and with such a
brusque business-like attention to mere facts; but surely he could
have but one object in coming there.  And then he alluded specially
to a wife.  So the widow's heart leapt with joy.

But how was she to tell Susan?  She ran up stairs almost breathless
with haste, to the bedroom door; but then she stopped; too much joy
she had heard was as dangerous as too much sorrow; she must think it
over for a while, and so she crept back again.

But after breakfast--that is, when she had sat for a while over her
teacup--she returned to the room, and this time she entered it.  The
letter was in her hand, but held so as to be hidden;--in her left
hand as she sat down with her right arm towards the invalid.

"Susan dear," she said, and smiled at her child, "you'll be able to
get up this morning? eh, dear?"

"Yes, mother," said Susan, thinking that her mother objected to this
idleness of her lying in bed.  And so she began to bestir herself.

"I don't mean this very moment, love.  Indeed, I want to sit with
you for a little while," and she put her right arm affectionately
round her daughter's waist.

"Dearest mother," said Susan.

"Ah! there's one dearer than me, I guess," and Mrs. Bell smiled
sweetly, as she made the maternal charge against her daughter.

Susan raised herself quickly in the bed, and looked straight into
her mother's face.  "Mother, mother," she said, "what is it?  You've
something to tell.  Oh, mother!"  And stretching herself over, she
struck her hand against the corner of Aaron's letter.  "Mother,
you've a letter.  Is he coming, mother?" and with eager eyes and
open lips, she sat up, holding tight to her mother's arm.

"Yes, love.  I have got a letter."

"Is he--is he coming?"

How the mother answered, I can hardly tell; but she did answer, and
they were soon lying in each other's arms, warm with each other's
tears.  It was almost hard to say which was the happier.

Aaron was to be there that evening--that very evening.  "Oh, mother,
let me get up," said Susan.

But Mrs. Bell said no, not yet; her darling was pale and thin, and
she almost wished that Aaron was not coming for another week.  What
if he should come and look at her, and finding her beauty gone,
vanish again and seek a wife elsewhere!

So Susan lay in bed, thinking of her happiness, dozing now and
again, and fearing as she waked that it was a dream, looking
constantly at that drawing of his, which she kept outside upon the
bed, nursing her love and thinking of it, and endeavouring, vainly
endeavouring, to arrange what she would say to him.

"Mother," she said, when Mrs. Bell once went up to her, "you won't
tell Hetta and Phineas, will you?  Not to-day, I mean?"  Mrs. Bell
agreed that it would be better not to tell them.  Perhaps she
thought that she had already depended too much on Hetta and Phineas
in the matter.

Susan's finery in the way of dress had never been extensive, and now
lately, in these last sad winter days, she had thought but little of
the fashion of her clothes.  But when she began to dress herself for
the evening, she did ask her mother with some anxiety what she had
better wear.  "If he loves you he will hardly see what you have on,"
said the mother.  But not the less was she careful to smooth her
daughter's hair, and make the most that might be made of those faded
roses.

How Susan's heart beat,--how both their hearts beat as the hands of
the clock came round to seven!  And then, sharp at seven, came the
knock; that same short bold ringing knock which Susan had so soon
learned to know as belonging to Aaron Dunn.  "Oh mother, I had
better go up stairs," she cried, starting from her chair.

"No dear; you would only be more nervous."

"I will, mother."

"No, no, dear; you have not time;" and then Aaron Dunn was in the
room.

She had thought much what she would say to him, but had not yet
quite made up her mind.  It mattered however but very little.  On
whatever she might have resolved, her resolution would have vanished
to the wind.  Aaron Dunn came into the room, and in one second she
found herself in the centre of a whirlwind, and his arms were the
storms that enveloped her on every side.

"My own, own darling girl," he said over and over again, as he
pressed her to his heart, quite regardless of Mrs. Bell, who stood
by, sobbing with joy.  "My own Susan."

"Aaron, dear Aaron," she whispered.  But she had already recognised
the fact that for the present meeting a passive part would become
her well, and save her a deal of trouble.  She had her lover there
quite safe, safe beyond anything that Mr. or Mrs. Beckard might have
to say to the contrary.  She was quite happy; only that there were
symptoms now and again that the whirlwind was about to engulf her
yet once more.

"Dear Aaron, I am so glad you are come," said the innocent-minded
widow, as she went up stairs with him, to show him his room; and
then he embraced her also.  "Dear, dear mother," he said.

On the next day there was, as a matter of course, a family conclave.
Hetta and Phineas came down, and discussed the whole subject of the
coming marriage with Mrs. Bell.  Hetta at first was not quite
certain;--ought they not to inquire whether the situation was
permanent?

"I won't inquire at all," said Mrs. Bell, with an energy that
startled both the daughter and son-in-law.  "I would not part them
now; no, not if--" and the widow shuddered as she thought of her
daughter's sunken eyes, and pale cheeks.

"He is a good lad," said Phineas, "and I trust she will make him a
sober steady wife;" and so the matter was settled.

During this time, Susan and Aaron were walking along the Balston
road; and they also had settled the matter--quite as satisfactorily.

Such was the courtship of Susan Dunn.

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