“Of that I shall be the best judge,” said Mrs. Little, very coldly indeed.
Poor Henry felt quite chilled. He said no more; nor did his mother return to the subject till they parted for the night, and then it was only to ask him what church Miss Carden went to—a question that seemed to be rather frivolous, but he said he thought St. Margaret's.
Next Sunday evening, Mrs. Little and he being at tea together, she said to him quietly—“Well, Harry, I have seen her.”
“Oh mother! where?”
“At St. Margaret's Church.”
“But how did you know her? By her beauty?”
Mrs. Little smiled, and took a roll of paper out of her muff, that lay on the sofa. She unfolded it, and displayed a drawing. It represented Grace Carden in her bonnet, and was a very good likeness.
The lover bounced on it, and devoured it with astonishment and delight.
“Taken from the bust, and retouched from nature,” said Mrs. Little. “Yes, dear, I went to St. Margaret's, and asked a pew-opener where she sat. I placed myself where I could command her features; and you may be sure, I read her very closely. Well, dear, she bears examination. It is a bright face, a handsome face, and a good face; and almost as much in love as you are.”
“What makes you fancy that? Oh, you spoke to her?”