so to speak, of thoughts, of ideas, of narrations, was one of her strongest charms.  By reason of this, the world was often unjust to her in its comments on her manner, on her relations with men.  The world more than once accused her uncharitably of flirting.  But the men with whom she had friendships knew better; and now and then a woman had the insight to be just to her, to see that she was quite capable of regarding a human being as objectively as she would a flower or a mountain or a star.  The blending of this trait in her with the strong capacity she had for loving individuals was singular; not more so, perhaps, than the blending of the poetic temperament with the active, energetic, and practical side of her nature.

It was not long before her name began to be mentioned in connection with Parson Dorrance’s, by the busy tongues which are always in motion in small villages.  It was not long, moreover, before a thought and a hope, in which both these names were allied, crept into the heart of Lizzy Hunter.

“Oh,” she thought, “if only Uncle Dorrance would marry Mercy, how happy I should be, she would be, every one would be.”

No suspicion of the relation in which Mercy stood to Stephen White had ever crossed Mrs. Hunter’s mind.  She had never known Stephen until recently; and his manner towards her had been from the outset so chilled and constrained by his unconscious jealousy of every new friend Mercy made, that she had set him down in her own mind as a dull and surly man, and rarely thought of him.  And, as one of poor Mercy’s many devices for keeping up with her conscience a semblance of honesty in the matter of Stephen was the entire omission of all reference to him in her conversation, nothing occurred to remind her friends of him.  Parson Dorrance, indeed, had said to her one day,—­

“You never speak of Mr. White, Mercy.  Is he an agreeable and kind landlord?”

Mercy started, looked bewilderedly in the Parson’s face, and repeated his words mechanically,—­

“Landlord?” Then recollecting herself, she exclaimed, “Oh, yes! we do pay rent to him; but it was paid for the whole year in advance, and I had forgotten all about it.”

Parson Dorrance had had occasion to distrust Stephen’s father, and he distrusted the son.  “Advance? advance?” he exclaimed.  “Why did you do that, child?  That was all wrong.”

“Oh, no!” said Mercy, eagerly.  “I had the money, and it made no difference to me; and Mr. Allen told me that Mr. White was in a great strait for money, so I was very glad to give it to him.  Such a mother is a terrible burden on a young man,” and Mercy continued talking about Mrs. White, until she had effectually led the conversation away from Stephen.