d young
Southerner led captive by a daughter of New England trained in the right
school, who would impose her opinions in their integrity. Considering
how prejudiced he must have been he was certainly behaving very well;
even at that distance Miss Birdseye dimly made out that there was
something positively humble in the way he invited Verena Tarrant to seat
herself on a low pile of weather-blackened planks, which constituted the
principal furniture of the place, and something, perhaps, just a trifle
too expressive of righteous triumph in the manner in which the girl put
the suggestion by and stood where she liked, a little proudly, turning a
good deal away from him. Miss Birdseye could see as much as this, but
she couldn't hear, so that she didn't know what it was that made Verena
turn suddenly back to him, at something he said. If she had known,
perhaps his observation would have struck her as less singular--under
the circumstances in which these two young persons met--than it may
appear to the reader.

"They have accepted one of my articles; I think it's the best." These
were the first words that passed Basil Ransom's lips after the pair had
withdrawn as far as it was possible to withdraw (in that direction) from
the house.

"Oh, is it printed--when does it appear?" Verena asked that question
instantly; it sprang from her lips in a manner that completely belied
the air of keeping herself at a distance from him which she had worn a
few moments before.

He didn't tell her again this time, as he had told her when, on the
occasion of their walk together in New York, she expressed an
inconsequent hope that his fortune as a rejected contributor would take
a turn--he didn't remark to her once more that she was a delightful
being; he only went on (as if her revulsion were a matter of course) to
explain everything he could, so that she might as soon as possible know
him better and see how completely she could trust him. "That was, at
bottom, the reason I came here. The essay in question is the most
important thing I have done in the way of a literary attempt, and I
determined to give up the game or to persist, according as I should be
able to bring it to the light or not. The other day I got a letter from
the editor of the _Rational Review_, telling me that he should be very
happy to print it, that he thought it very remarkable, and that he
should be glad to hear from me again. He shall hear from me again--he
needn't be af