had found his mother in
a dying condition, and was watching at her bedside. He did not intend to
write again, but Emma's letters were so persistent that, despite his
resolution, he did despatch two other notes, each more hasty and
illegible and more distracted in tenor than the previous one. In fact
the last had no signature at all.

At length Emma was so completely carried away by Hiram's distress, that
she actually desired to proceed to Hampton, where she felt her presence
would act like a balm to his sorrowful and bruised heart. Her mother, of
course, would permit no such indiscreet step, so that Emma had to rest
satisfied with writing long, loving letters.

Hiram, meantime, was not without his harmless recreations.

[All the town seemed to have been informed how devoted Hiram was to his
sick mother. Nobody knew, however, of the secret of the little room
adjoining, and of our hero's busy hours there.]

In the cool of the afternoon he would take a walk into the village. He
called on his old master, Benjamin Jessup, who still maintained the
opposition store as against the Smiths. Jessup was the same
good-natured, jovial fellow as ever, but all token of familiarity died
away when Hiram, entering his place, saluted him with the quiet air and
manner of recognized superiority--yet, as you would say, pleasantly
enough. The rich New York shipping merchant inspired the country
storekeeper with awe.

Hiram enjoyed all this vastly, and talked amiably with Jessup about old
times. He walked complacently over the village, stopping every few steps
to have a word with his numerous acquaintances.

One afternoon, as he was taking his usual walk to the village, and had
nearly reached it, he met a lady whom at first he did not recognize, but
who appeared to know him from a distance.

It was Mary Jessup--now Mrs. Mary Williams--who stopped the way, and
whose face crimsoned as she approached. She had been married four or
five years--well married, as the phrase is. Her appearance had greatly
improved. Her form was finely developed. She had become stouter, and was
really more blooming than when she was a girl.

I have said she blushed, but not from any sense of mortification, such
as is not unfrequently experienced when one of the sex, feeling
conscious that time has not dealt kindly with her, meets an old friend
after a lapse of years, and dreads the first scrutinizing gaze. On the
contrary, Mary Williams was fully sensible of he