his devotion to her charms. There was yet another passion to be
gratified. The restless ambition of her foolish heart whispered to
her momently, that if her person had done so much, what might she
not hope to achieve when the treasures of her mind were known. She
had long since made the comparison of her own intellect with that
of every other maiden in the village, and she flattered herself
that before many days, the young stranger should make it too. Her
vain heart was rapidly preparing to smooth the path of the enemy
and make his conquests easy.

But it was not the women only, by whom the deportment of Alfred
Stevens was so closely watched. The eyes of suspicion and jealousy were
upon him. The two young men whose interview formed the conclusion
of our last chapter, scanned his conduct and carriage with sufficient
keenness of scrutiny.

"I'll tell you what, Bill Hinkley," said his cousin, "this fellow,
to my thinking, is a very great rascal."

"What makes you think so?" demanded the former, with slow, dissatisfied
accents; "he seems to pray very earnestly."

"That's the very reason I think him a rascal. His praying seems
to me very unnatural. Here, he's a perfect stranger in the place,
yet he never shows any curiosity to see the people. He never once
looks around him. He walks to the church with his eye cast upon
the ground, and sometimes he squints to this side and sometimes
to that, but he seems to do it slyly, and seems to take pains that
nobody should see him doing, it. All this might answer for an old
man, who--believes that everything is vanity--as, indeed, everything