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legs" before they could reach Bryer Farm, Rick tossed in his trunk, handed in his bride, took his small driver on his knees, and set forth through the sunshine toward Shiloh.

An hour afterward, having finished my shopping and turned my face homeward, I came upon them midway between Clay Corner and Hope Plain, where the loneliness of the road is not tempered, for more than a mile, by any dwelling. The horse had been loosened from the wagon, and was panting under a tree by the wayside; Rick stood looking at him with a serious face; his wife sat in the wagon, unruffled and observant; and the small boy was making much ado of crying, with his dirty fists in his eyes. "What is the matter?" I asked, drawing up beside the party.

"The matter is that this miserable beast is completely knocked up with old age, or starvation, or hard work, or a mixture of the three; it would be a kindness to knock him in the head and put him out of his misery. I've a great mind to do it. Be off, you young rascal, and tell his master to come and look after him, if he's got a master. It's a question whether he'll have a horse when he gets here, and may he never have another!

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There was a short consultation. It ended in Rick's placing his bride in the empty seat of my buggy, to be conveyed to Bryer Farm; while he turned back on foot in search of a team to bring on his trunk and himself.

My passenger sat silent, stealing occasional glances at me from under her long eyelashes; doubtless, she was embarrassed by the novelty of her position. To set her at ease, by diverting her thoughts into a familiar channel, I inquired what place she had been accustomed to call home?

"Philadelphia."

"Ah? I have many acquaintances there. Do you know the Maxwells or the Lightfoots?"

"No. I know the Heavyheads very well."

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I looked at her face. It was perfectly simple and serious, without a sign of having intended a witticism in it anywhere. Repressing a smile at the odd, but, as it ap peared, fortuitous, conjunction of names, I said:

"Would it be an impertinence to ask what name you have exchanged for that of Thorne? I may know some branch of your family."

"My name was Dorn-Daisy Dorn."

"A dainty name for a dainty lady," I thought, but not aloud. Truth to tell, I did not seem to "get on" with Rick's wife. The child-like sweetness and simplicity of her manner was slightly iced with a hauteur that seemed absurdly out of place there. It occurred to me, finally, that the congelation might be due to her knowledge of Rick's former sentiment toward me, and I gave "Racer” a hint to trot faster.

Not until I drove through the great gate of Bryer Farm did I realize what an awkward mission had been forced upon me to bring home Rick's unheralded, unlooked-for bride; and Rick himself-nobody knew where. I sent an anxious glance down the long vista of the road, but he was not in sight.

"Will you go in ?" I asked, hoping, and, indeed, fully expecting, that the small creature beside me would beg to remain in the carriage until he should appear; but she only put forth her fairy-foot, and alighted, as easily as a bird might have done, on the porch. And Miss Bryer, warned of my arrival by some domestic scout, was already opening the door, with the pair of idiots at her back. Not until she had ushered us into the parlor, and cast several curious, questioning glances at my companion, did I venture upon an explanation. Taking Mrs. Rick's hand in mine, in the belief that a friendly, sympathizing touch would be helpful to her in her trying position, I said:

"Miss Bryer, I bring a new claimant for your love. Rick expected to have had the pleasure of presenting her

to you himself, but a provoking, though harmless, accident has detained him on the way hither. He is quite well, and will soon be here. Meantime, he sends you, by my hands, his wife."

"Hands his wife! hands his wife!" echoed the halfwits, rapturously. Miss Bryer seemed turned to stone.

"Who's there?" suddenly called Dr. Bryer's harsh voice from the farther door. And after a moment he added, impatiently, "Thunder and lightning! why don't you answer?"

Thus adjured, Miss Bryer found tremulous voice. "I don't know-I believe-Miss Frost says it's Rick's wife.”

"Rick's knife," said the old man, sharply, "he's always losing something. Did that young woman find it? Oh! there's Miss Corse. How do you do, madam ?"

I threw a compassionate glance at the bride, whose home-coming was so strange and so forlorn. Her expression confounded me. Its innocent serenity was undisturbed: she stood looking on as at a spectacle in which she had no concern. Yet, for one brief instant, I seemed to catch a swift gleam of the eyes, a slight compression of the lips, indicating that she was not so totally unmoved as she appeared. I seemed to discover that the glances sped sidewise from under her long eyelashes, were cool, keen, subtle, comprehensive; noting every detail of the scene, penetrating the thoughts and analyzing the character of every actor therein. I seemed to see that she was at once observant, amused, contemptuous, and guarded.

I say, seemed,-for, the next moment, meeting her clear, childlike eyes turned full upon me, I felt that I had been under a delusion.

"I am sorry Carrie is not in," said Miss Bryer, addressing her new niece, in a trembling voice and with evident effort; "she would make it more pleasant for you. She would not be so much overcome by-" The quivering voice broke down completely.

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