"What a pity, now, that you should be so careless of me, when I was so thoughtful of you! I have come all this distance, to see how you do."
"I am sorry to have given you the trouble," said Mary.
"Cousin, are you unwell to-day?" said William.
"No, sir," said Mary, going on with her sewing.
There was something so marked and decisive in all this, that William could scarcely believe his ears. He turned away, and commenced a conversation with a young lady; and Mary, to show that she could talk if she chose, commenced relating a story to her cousins, and presently they were all in a loud laugh.
"Mary has been full of her knickknacks to-day," said her old uncle, joining them.
William looked at her: she never seemed brighter or in better spirits, and he began to think that even Cousin Mary might puzzle a man sometimes.
He turned away, and began a conversation with old Mr. Zachary Coan on the raising of buckwheat—a subject which evidently required profound thought, for he never looked more grave, not to say melancholy.
Mary glanced that way, and was struck with the sad and almost severe expression with which he was listening to the details of Mr. Zachary, and was convinced that he was no more thinking of buckwheat than she was.
"I never thought of hurting his feelings so much," said she, relenting; "after all, he has been very kind to me. But he might have told me about it, and not somebody else." And hereupon she cast another glance towards him.