y's young days,"
and then her thoughts wandered to that same handsome stranger.

She, too, had seen him in church on Sunday, and knew well how the rosy
blush mantled her fair face when she saw the pleasant smile she had
hoped was for her. But she might have known better, she thought; such
a splendid man would never think of her. She would be sure to die an
old maid, all on account of that dark-eyed stranger.

"Has Bill got in with the mail?" asked Miss Mayfield.

"Yes, miss; here's your paper what Bill brought, and here is a letter
or valentine what Bill didn't bring. It's from the village," said the
little old postmaster, with a merry laugh.

Yes, no mistaking, it was a valentine, directed in a fine manly hand
to Miss Henrietta Mayfield. "From Squire Sloughman," thought Miss
Henrietta. "He has spoken, or rather written his hopes at last." But,
no, that was not his handwriting.

Miss Mayfield stepped out on the porch, carefully opened the envelope,
and glanced hurriedly over the contents, and then at the
signature--Arthur Linton.

"Well, well, who would have thought?" said she; "that is the name of
the handsome stranger! Just to think of his really taking a liking to
me. Stop! maybe he is a sharper from town, who has heard of my having
a little property, and that's what he's after. I'll read his valentine
over again:

Do not think me presumptuous, dear maid, in having dared to write
you. No longer can I resist the continued pleadings of my heart.
I have loved you ever since your sweet blue eyes, beaming with
their pure, loving light, met my gaze. I have seized the
opportunity offered by St. Valentine's day to speak and learn my
fate. I will call this evening and hear from your dear lips if I
shall be permited to try and teach your heart to love,

ARTHUR LINTON.

"Well, truly that is beautiful language. It is a long day since
anybody talked of my blue eyes. They were blue once, and I suppose are
so still. Well, he writes as if he meant it. I'll see him, and give
him a little bit of encouragement. Perhaps that seeing some one else
after me will make the squire speak out. For six years he has been
following me. For what? He has never said. I like Squire
Sloughman--(his name should be Slowman). I'll try and hasten him on
with all the heart I've got left. The most of it went to the bottom of
the cruel ocean with my poor sailor-boy. Ah! if it h