under the notice of a pair of wrens, which are like women, in that they
usually have some secret business behind their curiosity. The business
in this case is the matter of their own nest, which they have located
in a broken horse-collar in my saddle-house. At such seasons they are
alert for appropriating building materials that may have been fetched
to hand by other birds; and they have already abstracted a piece of
candle-wick from the bottom of my post-office.

Georgiana has been chilly towards me for two days, and I think is doing
her best not to freeze up altogether. I have racked my brain to know
why; but I fear that my brain is not of the sort to discover what is
the matter with a woman when nothing really is the matter. Moreover,
as I am now engaged to Georgiana, I have thought it better that she
should begin to bring her explanations to me--the steady sun that will
melt all her uncertain icicles.

At last this morning she remarked, but very carelessly, "You didn't
answer my note."

"What note, Georgiana?" I asked, thunderstruck.

She gave me such a look.

"Didn't you get the note I put into that--into that--" Her face grew
pink with vexation and disgust.

"Did you put a note into the--into the--" I could not have spoken the
word just then.

I retired to my arbor, where I sat for half an hour with my head in my