added novelty to the chorus of our familiar
praises.

CHAPTER V.

Miss WOKENHAM was a frequent guest at this
time at our fireside. She had made a confidence
to us, and imparted a great piece of news, which
we received half with pleasure and half with pain.
The pleasure was occasioned by the hope that she
would be happy, and the pain by the thought
of losing her. Miss Wokenham was going
to be married! And her husband was to take
her out of Willborough, out of England, out of
Europe, away across the salt sea as far as North
America. I well remember the day when she first
broke the news to us, and the comical struggle
between crying and laughing which twitched her
face all the time she was telling it. It was the
afternoon of a half-holiday, one bright October
day, when she walked into the parlour where
Anna and I were sitting with Aunt Gough, who
was half asleep over a perfect Arachne's web of
fine-drawing. "Well, my mild-eyed Philosophy,"
said Miss Wokenham, greeting me with a kiss,
which I had to stoop down to receive. (Almost
every one of her pupils she distinguished by a
nickname. Mine was Philosophy. Anna she
always called Will-o'-the-wisp. "Well, mild-
eyed Philosophy! And how are you? And how
is dear aunty? I need not ask how you are,
Will-o'-the-wisp, flashing and beaming brightly
enough to lead a whole legion of unwary
travellers astray, and mischievous enough
to enjoy their flouudcrings in the bog
afterwards."

She had always a quick lively manner; but
she now spoke more rapidly than usual, and I,
who knew her well, was certain she was
fluttered and excited. She proved me to be right
after a minute or two, when, seating herself on
a broad low cushion just by Aunt Gough's knee,
she clasped her hands tightly together, and said,
abruptly, "I'm not used to tell lies, and I find
I can't even act one well. It's of no use my
coming in with a swagger and pretending to be
quite at my ease; for I'm not at my ease,
and you know I'm not at my ease; and I know
that you know I'm not at my ease. I've
come on purpose to tell you something, Mrs.
Gough, and, as the clear girls are here, they
may as well stay and hear it too, for they must
know it sooner or later." She stopped an
instant; but, seeing my aunt was about to speak,
held up her hand to beg for silence, and went
on with a plunge. "I am going to be married,
and I know everything that can be said about the
absurdity of such a step at my time of life. But
I've balanced the disadvantages of living and
dying a solitary lonely woman, without a
human being to comfort me in sickness or sorrow,
against the disadvantages of being laughed at for
an old fool who threw away herself and her
savings on the first frog-eating Frenchman who
chose to hold up his finger to her, and I've
come to the conclusion that I can endure ridicule
in good company better than dreary old age by
myself. So there's my great news, my dears,
and you needn't put any restraint on the expression
of your feelings."

I never heard any one observe that Aunt
Gough was remarkable for tact; but she
certainly had a way of doing and saying the
right thing at the right moment, which fell like
soothing balm on the feelings of those around
her. She was what it is now the fashion to call
"sympathetic," in a greater degree than any one
I have ever known. When little Miss Wokenham
had finished her speech, and sat panting with
her mouth twisted into a strained smile, and her
bright black eyes brimming with tears, my aunt
took her small hand gently in her own, and,
patting it soothingly, said in her soft slow way,
and without a trace of surprise in her voice:
"And very good news it is, too, and a very
sensible woman I think you for bringing it. And
who is to be the good man, my love?"

The little woman jumped up and put her
arms round my aunt's neck; giving way now to
a gush of tears.

"That's the phrase," she said. "The very
phrase, you dear, kind soul! I have been
puzzling how I should call him—not in my own
thoughts, you know, but to other people; and
I felt that my lover, or my betrothed, was out
of the question. Even husband gave me a kind
of shock. It's so late to begin, you know. But
'good man,' that is the very phrase! Cozy and
prosy, and yet kindly. And you don't think me
a weak old idiot, do you?"

By-and-by the little woman calmed down
and received our congratulations with her usual
sensible self-possession. Then, by degrees, she
told us the story of her wooing.

"It's M'sieu' de Beauguet, the French
master—Old Bogie, you know, girls. I shall
be Mrs. Old Bogie. Won't that be a good
name for me? I'm sure I never thought of
such a thing all the years I've known him,
though we were always on the best of terms,
until, about a month ago, he came to me and
told me that he had had an unexpected piece
of good fortune. 'I'm honestly glad of it,
M'sieu',' said I; 'for I have a great respect
for you, and I'm sure you deserve a smile
from Fortune after bearing her frowns with
such gallantry. But all the world knows how
natural cheerful bravery is to a Frenchman.' My
dears, I knew he had been very, very poor,
and had fought a hard fight without asking aid
from any one. So it was not a mere flourish
on my part. He made me a grand bow, and
said, 'I accept the compliment for my nation,
mademoiselle, not for myself.' And then he told
me that a distant relative, from whom he had had
no expectations, had died in Canada, whither he
had emigrated many years ago, and that this
distant relative had left a small property and
a farm near Quebec to his second cousin, Louis
Auguste Philippe Emile de Beauguet. I wrote
the names down afterwards, and that's how
I remember them so glibly. And then he said
that he had resolved to give up teaching and to
go out and settle in Canada, where there
quite a colony of his country people; and he