The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 11, No. 64, February, 1863. Various

as infinite to her.

      This, you see, is not exactly coquetry. But events drifted her.

      When supper was over, and Dinah had gone to sleep, and Cely to visit the neighbors, as usual, Dorcas shyly approached the subject which occupied her thoughts, by getting the little box of jewelry, and looking at it. Her mother called her from the kitchen, out of which the bed-room opened.

      "Does mother want me?" asked Dorcas, turning round, with the box in her hand.

      "No, no matter," answered the mother; and, possibly with an intuitive feeling of what was in her daughter's thought, she went into the bed-room, and looked with her at the pin and ring of Aunt Dorcas.

      "Was it—was it a long time, mother,—I mean, before he came back?" said Dorcas.

      "Who? Captain Waterhouse? Bless you! they was as good as merried for ten year, an' he was goin' all the time, an' then, jest at the last minute, to be 'racked! It's 'most always so, when people goes to sea," added she, in a plaintive tone.

      Dorcas meditated; she looked wistfully at her mother.

      "It's a pretty pin,—dreadful pretty round the edge."

      "Yes, 't is! I expect likely them's di'mon's. 'T was made over in foreign parts. He was goin' to bring his picter, too, from there. But he's lost and gone! Your Aunt Dorcas never had no more suitors after that, and she kind o' gin in, and never had no sperits."