been suitable to a far smaller income than
that which they at present enjoyed. So much
for worldly circumstances. As for their worldly
character, it stood as high. No one could say a
word against any of their habits or actions.
Their righteousness and godliness was patent in
every one's eyes. So Grace Hickson thought
herself entitled to pick and choose among the
maidens before she should meet with one fitted
to be Manasseh's wife. None in Salem came
up to her imaginary standard. She had it in
her mind even at this very time—so soon after
her husband's death—to go to Boston, and take
counsel with the leading ministers there, with
worthy Mr Cotton Mather at their head, if
they could tell her of a well-favoured and godly
young maiden in their congregations worthy of
being the wife of her son. But, besides good
looks and godliness, the wench must have good
birth, and good wealth, or Grace Hickson would
have put her contemptuously on one side.
When once this paragon was found, and the
ministers had approved, Grace anticipated no
difficulty on her son's part. So Lois was right
in feeling that her aunt would dislike any speech
of marriage between Manasseh and herself.

But the girl was brought to bay one day in
this wise. Manasseh had ridden forth on some
business, which every one said would occupy
him the whole day; but, meeting with the man
with whom he had to transact his affairs, he
returned earlier than any one expected. He missed
Lois from the keeping-room where his sisters
were spinning, almost immediately. His mother
sat by at her knitting—he could see Nattee in
the kitchen through the open door. He was too
reserved to ask where Lois was, but he quietly
sought till he found her—in the great loft,
already piled with winter stores of fruit and
vegetables. Her aunt had sent her there to
examine the apples one by one, and pick out such
as were unsound for immediate use. She was
stooping down, and intent upon this work, and
was hardly aware of his approach, until she lifted
up her head and saw him standing close before
her. She dropped the apple she was holding,
went a little paler than her wont, and faced him
in silence.

"Lois," he said, " thou rememberest the
words that I spoke while we yet mourned over
my father. I think that I am called to marriage
now, as the head of this household. And
I have seen no maiden so pleasant in my sight
as thou art, Lois!" He tried to take her hand.

But she put it behind her with a childish
shake of her head, and, half crying, said:

"Please, Cousin Manasseh, do not say this to
me. I dare say you ought to be married, being
the head of the household now; but I don't
want to be married. I would rather not."

"That is well-spoken," replied he, frowning
a little, nevertheless. " I should not like to
take to wife an over-forward maiden, ready to
jump at wedlock. Besides, the congregation
might talk if we were to be married too soon
after my father's death. We have, perchance,
said enough, even now. But I wished thee to
have thy mind set at ease as to thy future
welldoing. Thou wilt have leisure to think of it,
and to bring thy mind more fully round to it."
Again he held out his hand. This time she took
hold of it with a free, frank gesture.

"I owe you somewhat for your kindness to
me ever since I came, Cousin Manasseh; and I
have no way of paying you but by telling you
truly I can love you as a dear friend, if you will
let me, but never as a wife."

He flung her hand away, but did not take his
eyes off her face, though his glance was lowering
and gloomy. He muttered something which
she did not quite hear, and so she went on
bravely, although she kept trembling a little,
and had much ado to keep from crying.

"Please let me tell you all. There was a
young man in Barford—nay, Manasseh, I cannot
speak if you are so angry; it is hard work to
tell you any how—he said that he wanted to
marry me; but I was poor, and his father
would have none of it, and I do not want to
marry any one; but if I did, it would be—-"
Her voice dropped, and her blushes told the
rest. Manasseh stood looking at her with sullen,
hollow eyes, that had a gathering touch of
wildness in them, and then he said:

"It is borne in upon me—verily I see it as in
a vision—that thou must be my spouse, and no
other man's. Thou canst not escape what is
foredoomed. Months ago, when I set myself
to read the old godly books in which my soul
used to delight until thy coming, I saw no
letters of printer's ink marked on the page,
but I saw a gold and ruddy type of some
unknown language, the meaning whereof was
whispered into my soul; it was, 'Marry Lois!
marry Lois!' And when my father died I knew
it was the beginning of the end. It is the
Lord's will, Lois, and thou canst not escape
from it." And again he would have taken her
hand and drawn her towards him. But this
time she eluded him with ready movement.

"I do not acknowledge it to be the Lord's
will, Manasseh," said she. "It is not 'borne
in upon me,' as you Puritans call it, that I am
to be your wife. I am none so set upon
wedlock as to take you, even though there be no
other chance for me. For I do not care for
you as I ought to care for my husband. But I
could have cared for you very much as a cousin
—as a kind cousin."

She stopped speaking; she could not choose
the right words with which to speak to him of
her gratitude and friendliness, which yet could
never be any feeling nearer and dearer, no more
than two parallel lines can ever meet.

But he was so convinced by what he
considered the spirit of prophecy that Lois was to
be his wife, that he felt rather more indignant
at what he considered to be her resistance to
the preordained decree, than really anxious as
to the result. Again he tried to convince her
that neither he nor she had any choice in the
matter, by saying:

"The voice said unto me ' Marry Lois,' and I
said, ' I will, Lord.'"