“Were I to do as you desire me—­leave home clandestinely, precede or follow you to Paris and join you there, suspicion and calumny would pursue me—­obloquy would rest upon my memory.  All these things I could bear, were it necessary in a good cause; but here it is not necessary, and would be wrong.  But I speak not of myself—­I ought not, indeed, to do so—­nor of Edith, whose head would be bowed in humiliation and sorrow—­nor of little Miriam, whose passionate heart would be half broken by such a desertion.  But I speak for the cause of morality and religion here in this neighborhood, where we find ourselves placed by heaven, and where we must exercise much influence for good or evil.  Wait patiently for those happy years, that the flying days are speeding on toward us—­those happy years, when you shall look back to this trying time, and thank God for trials and temptations passed safely through.  Do not urge me again upon this subject.  Be excellent, Thurston, be noble, be god-like, as you can be, if you will; it is in you.  Be true to your highest ideal, and you will be all these.  Oh! if you knew how your Marian’s heart craves to bow itself before true god-like excellence!”

CHAPTER XIX.

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

“No!  The mail isn’t come yet! leastways it isn’t opened yet!  Fan that fire, you little black imp, you! and make that kittle bile; if you don’t, I shall never git this wafer soft! and then I’ll turn you up, and give you sich a switching as ye never had in your born days! for I won’t be trampled on by you any longer! you little black willyan, you!  ’Scat! you hussy! get out o’ my way, before I twist your neck for you!”

The first part of this oration was delivered by Miss Nancy Skamp, to some half-dozen negro grooms who were cooling their shins while waiting for the mail, before she closed the doors and windows of the post-office; the second part was addressed to Chizzle, her little negro waiter—­and the third concluding sentence, emphasized by a smart kick, was bestowed upon poor Molly, the mottled cat.  The village post-office was kept in the lower front room of the little lonely house on the hill, occupied by the solitary spinster.

The mail-bags were stuffed remarkably full, and there were several wonderful letters, that she felt it her duty to open and read before sending to their owners.

“Let’s see,” said the worthy postmistress, as she sorted the letters in her hand.  “What’s this? oh! a double letter for Colonel Thornton—­pshaw! that’s all about political stuff!  Who cares about reading that?  I don’t!  He may have it to-night if he wants it!  Stop! what’s this?  Lors! it’s a thribble letter for—­for Marian Mayfield!  And from furrin parts, too!  Now I wonder—­(Can’t you stop that caterwauling out there?” she said, raising her voice.  “Sposen you niggers were to wait till I open the office.  I reckon you’d get your letters just as soon.) Who can be writing from furrin parts to Marian Mayfield?  Ah!  I’ll keep this and read it before Miss Marian gets it.”