with a small field, but telescopic power.

Grace Hope, whom we will now call Mary Bartley, since everybody but her
father, who generally avoided _her name_, called her so, was a well-grown
girl of thirteen, healthy, happy, beautiful, and accomplished. She was
the germ of a woman, and could detect who loved her. She saw in Hope an
affection she thought extraordinary, but instinct told her it was not
like a young man's love, and she accepted it with complacency, and
returned it quietly, with now and then a gush, for she could gush, and
why not? "Far from us and from our friends be the frigid philosophy"--of
a girl who can't gush.

Hope himself was loyal and guarded, and kept his affection within bounds;
and a sore struggle it was. He never allowed himself to kiss her, though
he was sore tempted one day, when he bought her a cream-colored pony, and
she flung her arms round his neck before Mr. Bartley and kissed him
eagerly; but he was so bashful that the girl laughed at him, and said,
half pertly, "Excuse the liberty, but if you will be such a duck, why,
you must take the consequences."

Said Bartley, pompously, "You must not expect middle-aged men to be as
demonstrative as very young ladies; but he has as much real affection
for you as you have for him."

"Then he has a good deal, papa," said she, sweetly. Both the men
were silent, and Mary looked to one and the other, and seemed a
little puzzled.

The great analysts that have dealt microscopically with commonplace
situations would revel in this one, and give you a curious volume of