I promised to tell you of the incident of the coat,
the unfortunate coat which I sometimes think
makes the rich folks visiting the hall look sidewise
at me. It is strange! Am I not myself, whether
clad in velvet or in fustian—in homespun fabric, or
in cloth of gold? People say I am simple—wholly
ignorant of the world; I must be so in truth.

But about the coat. I hinted that Annie even
saw, and alluded to it; it was not long after my
arrival at the hall, and a young lady from the
neighborhood was paying a visit to Annie.

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They were standing on the portico, and I was
leaning against the trunk of the old oak beneath,
admiring the sunset which was magnificent that
evening. All at once I heard whispers, and turning
round toward the young ladies, saw them
laughing. Annie's finger was extended toward the
hole in my elbow, and I could not fail to understand
that she was laughing at my miserable coat.

I was not offended, though perhaps I may have
been slightly wounded; but Annie was a young
girl and I could not get angry; I was not at all
ashamed—why should I have been?

“I am sorry, but I cannot help the hole in my
elbow,” I said, calmly and quietly, with a bow and
a smile; “I tore it by accident, yesterday.”

Annie blushed, and looked very proud and
offended, and it pained me to see that she suffered
for her harmless and careless speech. I begged
her not to think that my feelings were wounded,
and bowing again, went up to my room. I looked
at my coat, it was terribly shabby, and I revolved
the propriety of purchasing another, but I gave up
the idea with a sigh. She needs all my money, and
my mind is made up; she shall have the black silk,
and very soon.

I very nearly forgot to relate what followed the
little scene on the portico. During all that

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evening, and the whole of the next day, Annie scarcely
looked at me, and retained her angry and offended
expression. I was pained, but could add nothing
more to my former assurance that I was not
offended.

Toward evening, I was sitting with a book upon
the portico, when Annie came out of the parlor.
She paused on the threshold, evidently hesitated,
but seemed to resolve all at once, what to do. She
came quickly to my side, and holding out her hand
said frankly and kindly, with a little tremor in her
voice, and a faint rose-tint in the delicate cheeks:

“I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Mr.
Cleave, indeed I did not, sir; my speech was the
thoughtless rudeness of a child. I am sorry, very
sorry that I was ever so ill-bred and unkind; will
you pardon me, sir?”

I rose from my seat, and bowed low above the
white little hand which lay in my own, slightly
agitated,—

“I have nothing to pardon, Miss Annie,” I said,
“if you will let me call you by your household
name. I think it very fortunate that my coat was
shabby; had it been a new one, you would never
have observed it, and I should have lost these
sweet and friendly accents.”

And that is the “incident of the coat.”