in the
apple-tree,--telling that Aunt Huldah _knew_, but wasn't angry, only
just a little at Fanny, for being so sly. Then came the long summer
vacation. The very day I got home, the solemn young minister called.
Fanny said that he came often, but she thought he would do so no longer,
for he would see that it was of no use to be looking at Rachel. He did,
however, and Rachel said he came to look at Fanny. I bestirred myself,
therefore, to become acquainted with him. His stiffness was only of the
manners. I found him a genial, cultivated, warm-hearted person; in fact,
I liked him. How cold the word sounds now, applied to one whom I
afterwards came to love as a brother, whose gentle heart sympathized in
all our troubles, whose tears were ever ready to mingle with our own!

He gave us every opportunity of finding him out, joined us in our sunset
walks, and in our long sittings under the trees. I soon came to be well
satisfied that he should look at Fanny,--satisfied that she should watch
for his coming, and blush when he came. I was happy to see the mist she
once spoke of slowly gathering before her own eyes, and to know, from
the strange quiet which came over her, that some new influence was at
work within her heart.

The beauty of Rachel seemed each day more brilliant. Amid such happy
influences, the lively, genial side of her nature expanded like a flower
in the sunshine. "The soul of Rachel Lowe," having no longer to stand
alone, bearing the weight of its own sorrows, brought its energies to
promote the happiness of us all. She contrived pleasant surprises, and
charmed Aunt Huldah with her constant acts of kindness. She sang
beautiful songs, and filled the house with flowers; and when we sat
long, in the cool of the evening, out under the trees, she would relate
strange, wild stories which she had heard from her mother,--stories of
other times and distant lands.

Meanwhile Aunt Huldah was as kind as heart could wish, treating us
tenderly, and as if we were little children; and one stormy night, when
we four sat with her in the keeping-room, talking, until daylight faded,
and the short twilight left us nearly in darkness, she told us some
things about her own youth, things of which, by daylight, she would
never have spoken,--and told, too, of a dear, only brother, who was
ruined for all time, and, she feared, for eternity also, from being
crossed in love by the strong will of his father. Aunt Huldah had a
tender hear