would be difficult to
find.

The next day, as soon as breakfast was over, Mark, though trying to
cheer up his uncle, was secretly longing for the hour when it would be
proper to present himself at Mr. Alford's. But time does move, albeit
with lagging pace to a lover, and in due season Mark was on his way.
Near the house he met the farmer, who greeted him heartily, and wished
him joy with a knowing smile. Mark took a freer breath; if there was
any difficulty, Mr. Alford certainly did not know it. But then it
occurred to him, that shy young ladies do not often make confidants of
elderly husbandmen in long blue frocks, and his spirits fell again.

Mr. Alford leaned against a fence and threshed his hands to keep them
warm, while he told Mark that "he had been with Mildred privately out
to the Probate Court,--that the case had been stated to the jedge, who
allowed, that, as she was above fourteen, she had a right to choose
her own guardeen,--that he, Alford, was to be put in, in place of the
Squire,--and that then, in his opinion, there would be an overhaulin'
so's to hev things set to rights."

Mark shook the hand of his good friend warmly, and commended his
shrewdness.

"But 'ta'n't best to stan' talkin' with an ol' feller like me," said
the farmer, "when you can do so much better. Jest look!"

Mark turned his head, and through the window of the house saw the
retreating figure of Mildred. He bounded across the yard, opened the
door without knocking, and rushed into the house. She had vanished: no
one was visible but Mrs. Alford, who was cutting up golden pumpkins in
long coils to dry.

"Come, Milly," said the good woman, "'ta'n't no use; he saw ye."

And Mildred appeared, coming slowly out of the buttery.

"Ye see, Mildred felt a little hurt about a letter; but I _knew_ there
was some mistake; so I wa'n't a-goin' to hev ye go off 'thout some
explanation."

"A letter?--explanation?" said Mark, thoroughly bewildered.

"Here it is," said Mildred, taking a letter from her pocket, still
looking down. Mark hastily took and opened it. The envelope bore
Mildred's address in a hand not unlike his own; the inclosure was a
letter from Mildred to himself, which he now saw for the first time.

"Mildred," said he, holding out his hands, "could you doubt me?"

She covered her face with her apron, but stood irresolute. He looked
again at the letter.

"Why, the clumsy trick, Mildred! This post-office stamp, 'New York,'
is