indulgence, than which no condition of mind more favourable to a good
time can be imagined.

Laura was there, and to her Will Taylor had attached himself. He was a
dapper little black-eyed fellow, a clerk in the dry-goods store, full of
fun and good-nature, and a general favourite, but it was certainly rather
absurd that Henry should be apprehensive of him as a rival. There also
was Fanny Miller, who had the prettiest arm in Newville, a fact
discovered once when she wore a Martha Washington toilet at a masquerade
sociable, and since circulated from mouth to mouth among the young men.
And there, too, was Emily Hunt, who had shocked the girls and thrown the
youth into a pleasing panic by appearing at a young people's party the
previous winter in low neck and short sleeves. It is to be remarked in
extenuation that she had then but recently come from the city, and was
not familiar with Newville etiquette. Nor must I forget to mention Ida
Lewis, the minister's daughter, a little girl with poor complexion and
beautiful brown eyes, who cherished a hopeless passion for Henry. Among
the young men was Harry Tuttle, the clerk in the confectionery and fancy
goods store, a young man whose father had once sent him for a term to a
neighbouring seminary, as a result of which classical experience he still
retained a certain jaunty student air verging on the rakish, that was
admired by the girls and envied by the young men.

And there, above all, was Tom Longman. Tom was a big, hulking fellow,
good-natured and simple-hearted in the extreme. He was the victim of an
intense susceptibility to the girls' charms, joined with an intolerable
shyness and self-consciousness when in their presence. From this
consuming embarrassment he would seek relief by working like a horse
whenever there was anything to do. With his hands occupied he had an
excuse for not talking to the girls or being addressed by them, and, thus