CHAPTER XI.

CONTAINING TWO DECLARATIONS, AND THE ANSWERS THERETO.

As Bute, on entering the village, passed the Widow Thurston's cottage, he noticed a dim little figure emerging from the gate. Although the night was dark, and the figure was so muffled as to present no distinct outline, Bute's eyes were particularly sharp. Like the sculptor, he saw the statue in the shapeless block. Whether it was owing to a short jerking swing in the gait, or an occasional sideward toss of what seemed to be the head, he probably did not reflect; but he immediately drew the rein on Diamond, and called out "Miss Carrie !"

"Ah!" proceeded from the figure, as it stopped, with a start; who is it ?"

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Bute cautiously drove near the plank sidewalk, before answering. Then he said: "It's me."

"Oh, Bute," exclaimed Miss Dilworth, "how you frightened me! Where did you come from?"

"From home. I'm a-goin' to fetch Mr. Max., but there's no hurry. I say, Miss Carrie, wouldn't you like to take a little sleigh-ride? Where are you goin' to?"

"To Waldo's."

"Why, so am I! Jump in, and I'll take you along."

Miss Dilworth, nothing loath, stepped from the edge of the sidewalk into the cutter, and took her seat. Bute experienced a singular feeling of comfort, at having the soft little body wedged so closely beside him, with the same wolf-skin spread over their mutual knees. His heart being on the side next

ber, it presently sent stinging warmth over his whole frame; the sense of her presence impressed him with a vague physical delight, and he regretted that the cutter was not so narrow as to oblige him to take her upon his bees. It was less than half a mile to the parsonage about two minutes, ss Diamond trotted—and then the doors of heaven would close upon him.

“No! by Jimming" be sullenly excisimed, turning around in the track, st the immbent risk of upsetting the

catter.

-What's the matter?" cried Miss Dworth, a Ettle alarmed at this unexpected manucvre.

“It isn't half a drive for you, Carrie," Bute replied. “The sleddin's prime, and I'll jist take a circuit up the creek, and across into the South Road. We go it in half an hour, and there's plenty of time."

Miss Dworth knew, better even than if he had tried to tell her, that Bute was proud and happy at having her beside him. Her vanity was agreeably ministered to; she enjoyed sleighing; and, moreover, where was the harm? She would not have objected, on a pinch, to be driven through Ptolemy by Arbutus Wilson, in broad daylight; and now it was too dark for either of them to be recognized. So she quietly submitted to what was, after all, not a hard fate.

As they sped along merrily over the bottoms of East Atauga Creek, past the lonely, whispering elms, and the lines of ghostly alders fringing the stream, where the air struck their faces with a damp cold, the young lady shuddered. She pressed a little more closely against Bute, as if to make sure of his presence, and said, in a low tone: "I should not like to be alone, here, at this hour."

Poor Bute felt that the suspense of his heart was no longer to be borne. She had played with him, and he had allowed himself to be played with, long enough. He would ask a serious question and demand a serious answer. His resolution was fixed, yet, now that the moment had arrived, his tongue seemed to become paralyzed. The words were in his mind,

every one of them-he had said them over to himself, a hundred times-but there was a muzzle on his mouth which prevented their being put into sound. He looked at the panels of fence as they sped past, and thought, so much more of

the road has gone, and I have said nothing."

Miss Dilworth's voice was like a palpable hand stretched out to draw him from that quagmire of silence. "Oh, Carrie!" he exclaimed, "you needn't be alone, anywheresleastways where there's any thing to skeer or hurt you."

She understood him, and resumed her usual tactics, halfaccepting, half-defensive. "We can't help being alone sometimes, Bute," she answered, "and some are born to be alone always. Alone in spirit, you know; where there is no congenial nature."

"You're not one o' them, Carrie," said Bute, desperately. "You know you're not a genus. If you was, I shouldn't keer whether I had your good-will or not. But I want that, and more'n that, because I like you better than any thing in this world. I've hinted the same many a time, and you know it, and I don't want you to turn it off no longer."

The earnestness of his voice caused Miss Dilworth to tremble. There was a power in the man which she feared she could not withstand. Still he had made no definite proposal, and she was not bound to answer more than his words literally indicated.

"Why, of course I like you, Bute," said she; "everybody does. And you've always been so kind and obliging towards me."

"Like! I'd ruther you'd say hate than like. There's two kinds o' likin', and one of 'em's the kind that doesn't fit anybody that comes along. Every man, Carrie, that's wuth his salt, must find a woman to work for, and when he's nigh onto thirty, as I am, he wants to see a youngster growin' up, to take his place when he gits old. Other ways, no matter how lucky he is, there's not much comfort to him in livin'. Now, I'm awful serious about this. I don't care whether we're con

genial spirits, or not, but I want you. Carrie, for my wife. You may hunt far and wide, but you'll find nobody that'll keer for you as I will. Perhaps I don't talk quite as fine as some, but talkin's like the froth on the creek; maybe it's shallow, and maybe it's deep, you can't tell The heart's the main thing, and, thank God, I'm right there. once, jist this once, don't trife with me.”

Carrie, this

Bute's voice became soft and pleading, as he closed. Miss Dilworth was moved at last; he had struck through her affected sentimentalism, and touched the small bit of true womanly nature beneath it. But the impression was too sudden. She had not relinquished her ambitions yearnings; she knew and valued Bute's fidelity, and, precisely for that reason, she felt secure in seeming to decline it. She would have it in reserve, in any case, and meanwhile, he was too cheerful and lighthearted to suffer much pain from the delay. Had he taken her in his arms, had he stormed her with endearing words, had he uttered even one sentence of the hackneyed sentiment in which she delighted, it would have been impossible to resist. But he sat silently waiting for her answer, while the horse slowly climbed the hill over which they must pass to reach the South Road; and in that silence her vanity regained its strength.

"Carrie ?" he said, at last. "Bute?"

"You don't answer me."

“Oh, Bute!" said she, with a curious mixture of tenderness and coquetry, "I don't know how. I never thought you were more than half in earnest. And I'm not sure, after all, that we were meant for each other. I like you as well as I like anybody, but—”

Here she paused.

"But you won't have me, I s'pose?" said Bute, in a tone that was both bitter and sad.

"I don't quite mean that," she answered. "But a woman has so much at stake, you know. She must love more than a

man, I've been told, before she can give up her name and her life to him. I don't know, Bute, whether I should do right to promise myself to you. I've never thought of it seriously. Besides, you come upon me so sudden—you frightened me a little, and I really don't exactly know what my own mind is." "Yes, I see," said Bute, in a stern voice.

They had reached the top of the hill, and the long descent to Ptolemy lay before them. Bute drew the reins and held the horse to his best speed. Some inner prop of his strong breast seemed to give way all at once. He took the thick end of his woollen scarf between his teeth and stifled the con. vulsive movements of his throat. Then a sensation of heat rushed through his brain, and the tears began to roll rapidly down his cheeks. He was grateful for the darkness which hid his face, for the bells which drowned his labored breathing, and for the descent which shortened the rest of the drive. said nothing more, and Miss Dilworth, in spite of herself, was awed by his silence. By the time they had reached the parsonage he was tolerably calm, and the traces of his passion had disappeared from his face.

He

Miss Dilworth lingered while he was fastening the horse. She felt, it must be confessed, very uneasy, and not guiltless of what had happened. She knew not how to interpret Bute's sudden silence. It was probably anger, she thought, and she would therefore lay the first stone of a temple of reconciliation. She liked him too well to lose him wholly.

"Good-night, Bute!" she said, holding out her hand: "you are not angry with me, are you? 1?"

"No," was his only answer, as he took her hand. There was no eager, tender pressure, as before, and the tone of his voice, to her ear, betrayed indifference, which was worse than anger.

After Woodbury had taken leave, there was a general movement of departure. The sempstress had come to spend a few days with Mrs. Waldo, and did not intend returning; it was rather late, and the Merryfields took the nearest road home, so