never looked more grave, not to say melancholy.

Mary glanced that way, and was struck with the sad and almost severe
expression with which he was listening to the details of Mr. Zachary,
and was convinced that he was no more thinking of buckwheat than she
was.

"I never thought of hurting his feelings so much," said she, relenting;
"after all, he has been very kind to me. But he might have told me about
it, and not somebody else." And hereupon she cast another glance towards
him.

William was not talking, but sat with his eyes fixed on the
snuffer-tray, with an intense gravity of gaze that quite troubled her,
and she could not help again blaming herself.

"To be sure! Aunt was right; he could not help his thoughts. I will try
to forget it," thought she.

Now, you must not think Mary was sitting still and gazing during this
soliloquy. No, she was talking and laughing, apparently the most
unconcerned spectator in the room. So passed the evening till the little
company broke up.

"I am ready to attend you home," said William, in a tone of cold and
almost haughty deference.

"I am obliged to you," said the young lady, in a similar tone, "but I
shall stay all night;" then, suddenly changing her tone, she said, "No,
I cannot keep it up any longer. I will go home with you, Cousin
William."

"Keep up what?" said William, with surprise.

Mary was gone for her bonnet. She came out, took his arm, and walked on
a little way.

"You have advised me always to be frank, cousin," said Mary, "and I must
and will be; so I shall tell you all, though I dare say it is not
according to rule."

"All what?" said William.

"Cousin," said she, not at all regarding what he said, "I was very much
vexed this afternoon."

"So I perceived, Mary."

"Well, it is vexatious," she continued, "though, after all, we cannot
expect people to think us perfect; but I did not think it quite fair in
you not to tell _me_."

"Tell you what, Mary?"

Here they came to a place where the road turned through a small patch of
woods. It was green and shady, and enlivened by a lively chatterbox of a
brook. There was a mossy trunk of a tree that had fallen beside it, and
made a pretty seat. The moonlight lay in little patches upon it, as it
streamed down through the branches of the trees. It was a fairy-looking
place, and Mary stopped and sat down, as if to collect her thoughts.
After picking up a stick, and playing a moment in the water, she
began: