After a moment's silence she began her pathetic little narrative,
hesitating at first, but gathering courage as she spoke:--

"I first saw him on the street in St. Albans, more than a month ago. Of
course I did not look directly at him, but I saw him and knew that he was
looking at me. I have been used to being stared at by men since I was a
child of twelve--I am past eighteen now, you know--and learned long
ago not to resent an impertinence which is alike unavoidable and, in a
poor way, flattering. But there was this difference: when he stared at me
I blush to say I liked it, nor should I have repulsed him had he spoken
to me. He was the first man I had ever seen that had really attracted me.
You are not a woman, therefore you cannot understand me fully. You see, a
man goes to a woman; a woman is drawn to a man, usually, I suppose,
against her will. I know little about the subject, this being my first,
and, I hope, my last experience, but--"

"And I, too, hope," I interrupted.

"Yes," she continued quickly. "But do you know I can almost understand
the feeble, hopeless resistance which the iron tries to exert against the
magnet. But, cousin Ned, it is powerless."

Here she brought her handkerchief to her eyes, and I exclaimed
regretfully, "Oh, Frances, I am surprised and sorry!"

"Yes, yes! I, too, was surprised, and was so sorry that I wept through
the whole night following my first sight of him, and between shame for
what I felt and longing to see him again, I suffered terribly. I prayed
for strength against this, my first temptation, and then my heart shrunk