"I do not, however, William," was the answer in more softened
tones. There was something in this speech of her lover, that found
its way through the only accessible avenues of her nature. It was
a truth, which she often repeated to herself with congratulatory
pride, that she had few feelings or desires in common with the
crowd.

"It is my misfortune," she continued, "to care very little for
the pastimes you speak of; and as for the company, I've no doubt
it will be very pleasant for those who go, but to me it will
afford very little pleasure. Your mother must therefore excuse me,
William:--I should be a very dull person among the rest."

"She will be so very sorry, Margaret--and Ned, whose new fiddle
has just come, and Jason Lightner, with his flute. They all spoke
of you and look for you above all, to hear them this evening. They
will be so disappointed."

William Hinkley spoke nothing of his own disappointment, but it was
visible enough in his blank countenance, and sufficiently audible
in the undisguised faltering of his accents.

"I do not think they will be so much disappointed, William Hinkley.
They have no reason to be, as they have no right to look for me
in particular. I have very little acquaintance with the young men
you speak of."

"Why, Margaret, they live alongside of you--and I'm sure you've met
them a thousand times in company," was the response of the youth,