Annie soon reached her uncle’s, where she met with a cordial reception, and she felt that she had learned a salutary lesson from the poor lunatic.  The next afternoon, she and her cousin Edith wandered forth into an adjoining field, to enjoy a stroll beneath the cloudless sky, and inhale the sweet breath of autumn, which was borne upon the gentle gales.  Nature was at rest.  No stormy wind ruffled her bosom or agitated its surface.  Her rich store of fruits lay spread out in great abundance, and the whitened fields stood ready for the harvest.

They conversed upon indifferent subjects till they came to a little silver stream, threading its silent way through the silken grass.  They crossed and seating themselves beneath the shade of a thrifty apple tree, picked up some of the delicious fruit that lay scattered in rich profusion around them.

“O, Annie, I forgot to tell you I received a visit from Dora, yesterday; she is very unhappy on account of Charles Stanley’s conduct.  She did not wish to go to the ball, on account of her father’s death, and he waited upon Eveline Houghton—­then left for Turner without calling to see Dora.”

“Indeed, I thought they were to be married this fall?”

“Such has been the report; but as she has not seen or heard from him since, she does not know how to construe his conduct towards her.”

“When Orville was returning from his eastern tour, he came across Charles, in Portland, and rode with him a short distance.  He sent Dora a present by him, but told him nothing of the transaction.  She came to me in hopes of hearing something more definite from him.”

“How does the poor girl bear it?”

“She is very unhappy, and says she is not ashamed to have people know she had been deceived; but many tell her they wouldn’t mind anything about it.”

“They may say so,” said Annie, raising her dark eyes to Edith, while a deeper flush suffused her cheek; “but, Edith, I tell you, it will wear and wear upon the secret springs of life, till it bears its victim to the grave.”

Edith gazed upon her with such an anxious, pitying expression, that she felt she had betrayed her own secret, and bending her head to hide her blushes, she picked up the mellow, golden colored fruit that lay around her, and commenced rolling them down into the stream that flowed at their feet.  At that moment poor crazy Betsey Thornton came bounding over the stone wall that separated that from an adjoining enclosure, and gathering her blanket about her, stood curtesying and laughing before them, repeating as she did so,

“Poor little Hannah Pease, poor little Hannah Pease—­old Ben Thornton, old Ben Thornton.”

“Take some apples, Mrs. Thornton,” said Edith, as she regarded her with a sad expression of countenance.

She took them, curtesied, and with her low, gurgling laugh, leaped over the wall, and went muttering on to rock or tree, or any other object that came in her way.