“On my attempting to take it from her she put it in her mouth and swallowed it.”

“Yes! and then he seized me and shook me, as if I had been a fine-bearing little plum tree in harvest time.”

“And served you right, I begin to think, you little limb, you.  What was it you had, you little hussy?”

“An assignation, he says, and he ought to know—­being a professor.”

“Don’t mock us, Minx!  Tell us instantly what were the contents of that note?”

“As if I would tell you even if I could.  But I couldn’t tell you even if I would.  Haven’t the least idea what sort of a note it was, from a note of music to a ‘note of hand,’ because I had to swallow it as I swallowed the Ogre at the church—­without looking at it.  And it is just as indigestible!  I feel it like a bullet in my throat yet!” And that was all the satisfaction they could get out of Jacko.

“I should not wonder if you had been making a fool of yourself, Nace,” said the commodore, who seemed inclined to blow up both parties.

“I hope, sir,” said the professor, with great assumption of dignity, “that you now see the necessity of forbidding that impertinent young coxcomb the house.”

“Shall do nothing of the sort, Grim.  Thurston has no more idea of falling in love with little Jacko than he has with her mother or Henrietta, not a bit more.”  And then the commodore happening to turn his attention to the two gaping negroes, with a flourish of his stick sent them about their business, and left the room.

The next evening Thurston repaired to the mossy dell in the expectation of seeing Marian, who, of course, did not make her appearance.

The morning after, filled with disappointment and mortifying conjecture as to the cause of her non-appearance, Thurston presented himself before Jacquelina at Luckenough.  He happened to find her alone.  With all her playfulness of character, the poor fairy had too much self-respect to relate the scene to which she had been exposed the day before.  So she contented herself with saying: 

“I found no opportunity of delivering your note, Thurston, and so I thought it best to destroy it.”

“I thank you.  Under the circumstances that was best,” replied the young man, much relieved.  When he reached home, he sat down and wrote a long and eloquent epistle, imploring Marian’s forgiveness for his rashness and folly, assuring her of his continued love and admiration; speaking of the impossibility of living longer without her society—­informing her of his intention to go to Paris, and proposing that she should either precede or follow him thither, and join him in that city.  It was her duty, he urged, to follow her husband.

The following Sunday, after church, Marian placed her answer in his hands.  The letter was characteristic of her—­clear, firm, frank and truthful.  It concluded thus: