“He seems to have no doubt,” said Pownal, “of discovering his lost son.  I confess that when I heard him in his animated way tell his story, with eyes raised in thankfulness to heaven, I was swept along by his enthusiasm, and felt no more doubt than himself of his success; but when I reflect more calmly on the circumstances the prospect is not so brilliant.”

“Do not doubt:  the prospect is brilliant:  Jeremiah shall cease his lamentations:  our prophet shall be made happy.  Ah, why anticipate anything but good!”

“I accept the omen, dear Miss Bernard,” said Pownal, looking with admiration upon her beaming countenance, “Men arrive at conclusions, how often false, by a fallible process of reasoning, while truth comes to your more fortunate sex by a happy inspiration.”

“And I accept the compliment, since you accept the inspiration.  I hope it is with more than the ordinary sincerity of those in the habit of making compliments.”

“I wish you could see into my heart.”

“You would wish the window closed immediately.  What do you suppose I should see there?”

“Yourself.”

“Then it is a looking-glass,” said Anne, blushing.  “A valuable piece of furniture certainly, in which any lady may view her face!”

“No! a portrait more true to life than Stuart’s, and which I prize above everything.”

“You must be mistaken in fancying it mine.  Only old pictures are prized.  The moderns have no reputation.”

“You will always jest.  I assure you I am serious,” said Pownal, who, however, was obliged to smile.

“I see you are very serious.  Oh, I hate seriousness ever since I was frightened by the long face of Deacon Bigelow, when he discovered my ignorance of the catechism.  It was as long,” she added, looking round for something to compare it to, “as the tongs.”

“Or as your lessons of a June day, when the sunshine and birds, and flowers were inviting you to join them.”

“Or as the time when I do not see Faith for twenty-four hours.”

“Or as my absence will be to me in New York.”

“I wonder how you,” said Anne, “who are accustomed to the bustle and excitement of a large city, can be contented with the quiet monotony of a country town.”

“I found something here not to be found in all country towns,” said Pownal.  “Besides, the noise and confusion of a large place never were agreeable to me, and when I return to them they lie like a weight upon my spirits.  Instead of a city I ought to have been born in a boundless forest.”

“You know I have said, I thought there was a wildness about you,” replied Anne, laughing.

“Do you not consider the wild animal tamed?”

“Not entirely.  It belongs to a species almost irreclaimable.”

“He will never be tamed a second time.”

“Then he must not be suffered to escape.”

The words flew from the lips of the gay impulsive girl before she was aware.  The eloquent blood crimsoned her cheeks, and clapping both her hands upon her face to conceal the blushes, she burst into a laugh as musical as the song of the canary bird.  Pownal’s eyes sparkled with delight, but before he could utter a word, she had sprung upon her feet.