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The week that has just passed has been a
pleasant one. I have thought, a hundred times,
“how good a thing it is to live!”

I must have been a good deal cramped and
confined in the city; but I enjoy the fair landscapes
here all the more. The family are very friendly
and kind—except Mrs. Barrington, who does not
seem to like me. She scarcely treats me with anything
more than scrupulous courtesy. The squire
and Annie, however, make up for this coldness.
They are both extremely cordial. It was friendly
in the squire to give me this mass of executorial
accounts to arrange. So far it has been done to his
entire satisfaction; and the payment for my services
is very liberal. How I long for money!

There was a spendid party at the hall on Tuesday.
It reminded me of old times, when we,
too, — but that is idle to remember. I do not
sigh for the past. I know all is for the best. Still,
I could not help thinking, as I looked on the brilliant
spectacle, that the world was full of changes
and vicissitudes. Well, the party was a gay and
delightful one; the dancing quite extravagant.
Annie was the beauty of the assemblage the belle

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of the ball—and she gave me a new proof of the
regret which she felt for the speech about my coat.
At the end of a cotillon she refused the arms of
half a dozen eager gallants to take mine, and
promenade out on the portico.

“Do you ever dance?” she said.

“Oh, yes,” I replied; “that is, I did dance once;
but of late years I have been too much occupied.
We live quietly.”

“You say `we.”'

“I mean my mother and I; I should have said
`poorly,' perhaps, instead of `quietly.' And I am
busy.”

She bowed her head kindly, and said, smiling:

“But you are not busy to-night; and if you'll
not think me forward, I will reverse the etiquette,
and ask you to dance with me.”

“Indeed I will do so with very great pleasure.”

“Are you sure?”

“Could you doubt it?”

“I was so very rude to you!”

And she hung her head. That, then, was the
secret of her choice of my arm. I could only
assure her that I did not think her rude, and I
hoped she would forget the whole incident. I was
pleased in spite of all—for I like to think well of
women. The cynical writers say they are all

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mean, and mercenary, and cowardly. Was Annie?
She had left many finely-dressed gentlemen, faultlessly
appointed, to dance with a poor stranger,
quite out at elbows.

I saw many cold looks directed at myself; and
when Annie took my arm to go into supper, the
gloom in the faces of some gentlemen who had been
refused, made me smile. When the party was
over, Annie gave me her hand at the foot of the
staircase. I saw a triumphant light in her mischievous
eyes, as she glanced at the departing
gallants; her rosy cheeks dimpled, and she flitted
up, humming a gay tune.

It is singular how beautiful she is when she
laughs—as when she sighs. Am I falling in love
with her? I shall be guilty of no such folly. I
think that my pride and self-respect will keep me
rational. Pshaw! why did I dream of such
nonsense!