Do not think me presumptuous, dear maid, in having dared to write you. No longer can I resist the continued pleadings of my heart.

I have loved you ever since your sweet blue eyes, beaming with their pure, loving light, met my gaze. I have seized the opportunity offered by St. Valentine's day to speak and learn my fate. I will call this evening and hear from your dear lips if I shall be permited to try and teach your heart to love,

ARTHUR LINTON.

"Well, truly that is beautiful language. It is a long day since anybody talked of my blue eyes. They were blue once, and I suppose are so still. Well, he writes as if he meant it. I'll see him, and give him a little bit of encouragement. Perhaps that seeing some one else after me will make the squire speak out. For six years he has been following me. For what? He has never said. I like Squire Sloughman--(his name should be Slowman). I'll try and hasten him on with all the heart I've got left. The most of it went to the bottom of the cruel ocean with my poor sailor-boy. Ah! if it had not been for his sad end, I would not now be caring for any man, save my poor Willie. But it is a lonesome life I am living--and it's kind of natural for a woman to think kindly of some man; and the squire is a real good fellow, and, to save me, I can't help wishing he would speak, and be done with it.

"This valentine may be for my good luck, after all," Miss Henrietta's thoughts were swift now, planning for the future; her feet kept pace with them, and before she knew it, she was at her own door.

"Why, aunty, how handsome you do look! your cheeks are as rosy as our apples," said Etta.

"Is that such a rarity, you should make so much of it?" answered Miss Henrietta.

"No, indeed, aunty, I only hope I may ever be as good looking as you are always. Did you get your yarn and tea?"

"Land! if I hain't forgot them! You see, child, the wind is blowing rather fresh, and I was anxious to get back," she answered her niece; but said to herself, "Henrietta Mayfield, I am ashamed on you to let any man drive your senses away."

"Never mind, Ettie; you can go over and spend the afternoon with Jessie Jones, and then get the things for me," she continued, glad of an excuse to get Etta away.

Miss Henrietta was very particular with her toilet that afternoon, and truly the result was encouraging. She was satisfied that she was handsome still.

It was near dark when she saw the handsome stranger coming up the garden walk.

"Did Miss Henrietta Mayfield receive a letter from me to-day?" he asked.

"Yes, sir; walk in," answered Miss Henrietta, who, although quite flurried, managed to appear quite cool.

"This, perhaps, may seem very precipitate in me, and I have feared perhaps you might not look with any favor on my suit. Do, dear lady, ease my fears. Can I hope that in time I may win the heart I am so anxious to secure?"

"Ahem--well, I cannot tell, sure. You know, sir, we have to know a person before we can love him. But I must confess I do feel very favorably inclined towards you."

"Bless you, my dear friend; I may call you so now, until I claim a nearer, dearer t.i.tle. If you are now kindly disposed, I feel sure of ultimate success. I feared the difference in our ages might be an objection."

"No, no; I do not see why it need. It is well to have a little advantage on one side or the other. But, my dear friend, should you fail to secure the affection, you will not think unkindly of your friend."

"No; only let me have a few weeks, with your continued favor, and I ask no more. Many, many thanks," and, seizing her hand, he pressed it to his lips.

"Will you not now allow me to see my fair Henrietta?" he asked.

"Oh, I have been a little flurried, and did forget it was quite dark.

I'll light the lamp in a minute."

Etta's sweet voice was now heard humming a song in the next room. She had returned from her visit, and as Miss Henrietta succeeded in lighting the lamp, her bright face peeped in the door, and she said:

"Aunty, Squire Sloughman is coming up the walk."

"Bless her sweet face! There is my Henrietta now!" exclaimed the visitor, and before the shade was adjusted on the lamp, she was alone.

The handsome stranger was in the next room with--Etta!

A little scream, an exclamation of surprise from Etta, followed by the deep, manly voice of Mr. Linton, saying:

"Dearest Henrietta, I have your aunt's permission to win you, if I can."

"Henrietta! Little baby Etta! Sure enough, that was her name, too.

What an idiot she had been!" thought Henrietta, the elder. "Oh! she hoped she had not exposed her mistake! Maybe he had not understood her!"

But Squire Sloughman was waiting for some one to admit him, and she had no more time to think over the recent conversation, or to determine whether or not Mr. Linton was aware of her blunder.

Squire Sloughman was cordially welcomed, and after being seated a while, observed:

"You have got a visitor, I see," pointing to the stranger's hat lying on the table beside him.

"Yes, Etta's got company. The stranger that boarded at Miss Plimpkins'

last summer. He sent Etta a valentine, and has now come himself,"

returned Miss Henrietta.

"A valentine! what for?"

"To ask her to have him, surely. And I suppose he'll be taking her off to town to live, pretty soon."

"And you, what will you do? It will be awful lonely here for you,"

said the squire.

"Oh! he's coming out now," thought Miss Henrietta. And she gave him a better chance by her reply:

"Well, I don't know that anybody cares for that. I guess no one will run away with me."

But she was disappointed; it came not, what she hoped for, just then.

Yet the Squire seemed very uneasy. At length he said:

"I got a valentine myself, to-day."

"You! What sort of a one? Comic, funny, or real in earnest?" asked Miss Henrietta.

"Oh! there is nothing funny about it--not a bit of laugh; all cry."

"Land! a crying valentine."

"Yes, a baby."

"Squire Sloughman!" said Miss Henrietta, with severe dignity.

"Yes, my dear, Miss Henrietta; I'll tell you all about it. You remember my niece, who treated me so shamefully by running away and marrying. Well, poor girl, she died a few days ago, and left her baby for me, begging I would do for her little girl as kindly as I did by its mother."

"Shall you keep it?" asked Miss Henrietta.

"I can't tell; that will depend on some one else. I may have to send it off to the poorhouse!"

"I'll take it myself first," said his listener.