The envelope was postmarked New York, and she smiled, thinking that Mrs.
Emerson, a charming lady who had spent the summer in Edgewood, and had
sung with her in the village choir, was coming back, as she had promised,
to have a sleigh ride and see Edgewood in its winter dress. Nancy had
almost forgotten the first letter in the excitements of her busy day, and
now here was another, from Boston this time. She opened the envelope and
found again only a single sentence, printed, not written. (Lest she
should guess the hand, she wondered?)

"Second Epistle of John. Verse 5."

"And now I beseech thee, lady, not as though I wrote a new commandment
unto thee, but that which we had from the beginning, that we love one
another."

Was it Mrs. Emerson? Could it be--any one else? Was it--? No, it might
have been, years ago; but not now; not now!--And yet; he was always so
different from other people; and once, in church, he had handed her the
hymn-book with his finger pointing to a certain verse.

She always fancied that her secret fidelity of heart rose from the fact
that Justin Peabody was "different." From the hour of their first
acquaintance, she was ever comparing him with his companions, and always
to his advantage. So long as a woman finds all men very much alike (as
Lobelia Brewster did, save that she allowed some to be worse!), she is in
no danger. But the moment in which she perceives and discriminates
subtle differences, marvelling that there can be two opinions about a
man's superiority, that moment the miracle has happened.