"I am not sure--perhaps--you do not mean Horace Bright, do you, sir?"

This was said with a bright blush, and a look in which the dawning
consciousness of maiden shame was so singuarly blended with almost
childish innocence, as both to delight me, and yet cause me to smile.

"And who is Horace Bright?" I asked, assuming as grave an air as possible.

"Oh! Horace is nobody--only the son of one of our neighbours. There, don't
you see the old stone house that stands among the apple and cherry trees,
on the banks of the river, just here in a line with this barn?"

"Quite plainly; and a very pretty place it is. We were admiring it as we
drove up the road."

"Well, that is Horace Bright's father's; and one of the best farms in the
neighbourhood. But you mustn't mind what _he_ says, grandmother always
tells me; boys love to talk grandly, and all the folks about here feel for
us, though most of them are afraid of 'Squire Van Tassel, too."

"I place no reliance at all on Horace's talk--not I. It is just as your
grandmother tells you; boys are fond of making a parade, and often utter
things they don't mean."

"Well, I don't think that is Horace's way, in the least; though I wouldn't
have you suppose I ever think, the least in the world, about what Horace
says concerning my never being left to want. My own aunts will take care
of _that_."

"And should they fail you, my dear," cried Marble, with strong feeling,