He held her hand a moment, and that made her color directly. "You will
come over the farm. Can you ride? Have you your habit?"

"No, cousin; but never mind that. I can put on a long skirt."

"A skirt! But, after all, it does not matter a straw what _you_ wear."

Mary was such a novice that she did not catch the meaning of this on the
spot, but half-way to the inn, and in the middle of a conversation, her
cheeks were suddenly suffused with blushes. A young man had admired her
and _said_ so. Very likely that was the way with young men. _No_ doubt
they were bolder than young women; but somehow it was not so very
objectionable _in them_.

That short interview was a little era in Mary's young life. Walter had
fixed his eyes on her with delight, had held her hand some seconds, and
admired her to her face. She began to wonder a little, and flutter a
little, and to put off childhood.

Next day, punctual to the minute, Walter drove up to the door in an open
carriage drawn by two fast steppers. He found Mr. Bartley alone, and why?
because, at sight of Walter, Mary, for the first time in her life, had
flown upstairs to look at herself in the glass before facing the visitor,
and to smooth her hair, and retouch a bow, etc., underrating, as usual,
the power of beauty, and overrating nullities. Bartley took this
opportunity, and said to young Clifford:

"I owe you an apology, and a most earnest one. Can you ever forgive me?"