All was animation at Greenwood the next morning, while yet it was dark, and as Janice dressed by candle-light, she trembled from something more than the icy chill of the room. The girl had been twice in her life to New York, once each to Newark and to Burlington, and though her visits to Trenton were of greater number, the event was none the less too rare an occurrence not to excite her. Her mother had to order her sharply to finish what was on her plate at breakfast, or she would scarce have eaten.

“If thou dost not want to be frozen, lass, before we get to Trenton,” warned the squire, “do as thy mother says. Stuff cold out of the stomach, or ’t is impossible to keep the scamp out of the blood.”

“Yes, dadda,” said the girl, obediently falling to once more. After a few mouthfuls she asked, “Dadda, who was Thalia?”

"’T was a filly who won the two-year purse at the Philadelphia races in sixty-eight,” the squire informed her, between gulps of sausage and buckwheat cakes.

“Was she very lovely?” asked Janice, in a voice of surprise.

“No. An ill-shaped mare, but with a great pace.”

The girl looked thoughtful for a moment and then asked, “Is that the only one there is?”

“Only what?” demanded her mother.

“The only Thalia?”

“’T is the only one I’ve heard of,” said the squire.

“Thou ’rt wrong, Lambert,” corrected his spouse, in wifely fashion. “’T was one of those old heathens with horns, or tail, or something, I forget exactly. What set thy mind on that, child? Hast been reading some romance on the sly?”

“No, mommy,” denied the girl.

“Put thy thoughts to better uses, then,” ordered the mother. “Think more of thy own sin and corruption and less of what is light and vain.”

It had been arranged that Thomas was to drive the sleigh, the squire preferring to leave Fownes in care of the remaining horses. It was Charles, however, who brought down the two trunks, and after he had put them in place he suggested, “If you’ll take seat, Miss Janice, I’ll tuck you well in.” Spreading a large bearskin on the seat and bottom of the sleigh, he put in a hot soapstone, and very unnecessarily took hold of the little slippered feet, and set them squarely upon it, as if their owner were quite unequal to the effort. Then he folded the robe carefully about her, and drew the second over that, allowing the squire, it must be confessed, but a scant portion for his share.

“Thank you, Charles,” murmured the girl, gratefully. “Of course he’s a bond-servant and he has a horrid beard,” she thought, “but it is nice to have some one to—to think of your comfort. If he were only Philemon!”

The bondsman climbed into the rear of the sleigh, that he might fold the back part of the skin over her shoulders. The act brought his face close to the inquirer, and she turned her head and whispered, “Who was Thalia?”

“’T was one of—”

“Charles, get out of that sleigh,” ordered Mrs. Meredith, sharply. “Learn thy place, sir. Janice, thou ’rt quite old enough to take care of thyself. We’ll have no whispering or coddling, understand.”

The bondsman sullenly obeyed, and a moment later the sleigh started. The servant looked wistfully after it until the sound of the bells was lost, and then, with a sigh, he went to his work.

With all the vantage of the daylight start, it took good driving among the drifts to get over the twenty-eight miles that lay between Greenwood and Trenton before the universal noon dinner, and as the sleigh drew up at the Drinkers’ home on the main street of the village, the meal was in the air if not on the table.

For this reason the two girls had not a chance for a moment’s confidence before dinner; and though Janice was fairly bursting with all that had happened since Tibbie’s visit, the departure of the squire for Burlington immediately the meal was ended, and the desire of Tabitha’s father and aunt to have news of Mrs. Meredith and of the doings “up Brunswick way,” filled in the whole afternoon till tea time—if the misnomer can be used, for, unlike the table at Greenwood, tea was a tabooed article in the Drinker home. One fact worth noting about the meal was that Janice asked if any of them knew who Thalia was.

“Ay,” said Mr. Drinker, “and the less said of her the better. She was a lewd creature that—”

“Mr. Drinker!” cried Tabitha’s aunt. “Thee forgets there are gentlewomen present. Wilt have some preserve, Janice?”

“No, I thank you,” said the girl. “I’m not hungry.” And she proved it by playing with what was on her plate for the rest of the meal.

Not till the two girls retired did they have an opportunity to exchange confidences. The moment they were by themselves, Tabitha demanded, “What made thee so serious to-night?”

“Oh, Tibbie,” sighed Janice, dolefully,” I’m very unhappy!”

“What over?”

“I—he—Charles—I’m afraid he—and yet—’T is something he wrote, but whether in joke or—Mr. Evatt said he insulted me at the tavern—Yet ’t is so pretty that—and mommy interrupted just—”

“What art thou talking about, Jan?” exclaimed Tibbie.

Janice even in her disjointed sentences had begun to unlace her travelling bodice,—for with a prudence almost abnormal this one frock was not cut low,—and she now produced from her bosom a paper which she unfolded, and then offered to Tibbie with a suggestion of hesitation, asking “Dost think he meant to insult me?”

Tabitha eagerly took the sheet, and read—

TO THALIA

These lines to her my passion tell,
Describe the empire of her spell;
A love which naught will e’er dispel,
          That flames for sweetest Thalia.

The sun that brights the fairest morn,
The stars that gleam in Capricorn,
Do not so much the skies adorn
          As does my lovely Thalia.

The tints with which the rose enchants,
The fragrance which the violet grants;
Each doth suggest, but ne’er supplants,
          The charms of dainty Thalia.

To gaze on her is sweet delight:
’T is heaven whene’er she 's in my sight,
But when she’s gone, ’t is endless night—
          All ’s dark without my Thalia.

I vow to her, by God above,
By hope of life, by depth of love,
That from her side I ne’er will rove,
          So much love I my Thalia.

“How monstrous pretty!” cried Tabitha. “I’m sure he meant it rightly.”

“I thought ’t was a beautiful valentine,” sighed Janice,— “and ’t was the first I ever had—but dadda says she was an ill-shaped mare—and mommy says ’t was something with a tail—and ’t is almost as bad to have her a wicked woman— so I’m feared he meant it in joke—or worse—”

“I don’t believe it,” comforted Tibbie. “He may have made a mistake in the name, but I’m sure he meant it; that he—well—thee knows. And if thee copies it fair, and puts in ‘Delia,’ or ‘Celia,’ ’t will do to show to the girls. I wish some one would send me such a valentine.”

Made cheerful by her friend’s point of view, Janice went on with more spirit,—

“Nor is that the end.” She took from her trunk a handkerchief and unwrapping it, produced the unset miniature. “He let me keep it,” she said.

“How mighty wonderful!” again exclaimed Tibbie, growing big-eyed. “Who—”

“Furthermore, and in continuation, as Mr. McClave always says after his ninthly,” airily interrupted Janice, drawing from her bosom the portrait of herself. “Who ’s that, Tibbie Drinker?”

“Janice!” cried the person so challenged. “How lovely! Who—Did Mr. Peale come to Greenwood?”

“Not he. Who, think you, did it?”

“I vow if I can guess.”

“Charles!

“No!” gasped Tibbie, properly electrified. “Thee is cozening me.”

“Not for a moment,” cried Janice, delightedly.

“Tell me everything about all” was Tabitha’s rapturous demand.

It took Janice many minutes, and Tibbie was called upon to use many exclamation and question marks, ere the tale of all these surprises was completed. Long before it had come to a finish, the two girls were snuggled together in bed, half in real love, as well as for the mutual animal heat, and half that they might whisper the lower. The facts, after many interruptions and digressions, having been narrated, Janice asked,—

“Whom, think you, Charles loves, Tibbie?”

"’T is very strange! From his valentine and miniature I should think ’t was thee. But from what he told thee—"

“’T is exactly that which puzzles me.”

“Oh, Janice! He—Perhaps thee was right. He may be a villain who is trying to beguile thee.”

“For what could—Then why should he tell me about her?”

“That—well—’t is beyond me.”

“If’t had not been for coming away, I—that is—” The girl hesitated and then said, “Tibbie?”

“What?”

“Dost think—I mean—” The girl drew her bedfellow closer, and in an almost inaudible voice asked, “Would it be right, think you—when I go back, you know—to—to encourage him—that is, to give him a chance to tell me—so as to find out?”

The referee of this important question was silent for long enough to give a quality of consideration to her opinion, and then decided, “I think thee shouldst. ’T is a question that thou hast a right to know about.” Having given the ruling, this most upright judge changed her manner from one conveying thought to one suggesting eagerness, and asked, “Oh, Janice, if he does—if thee finds out anything, wilt thee tell it me?”

“Ought I?” asked Janice, divided between the pleasure of monopolising a secret and the enjoyment of sharing it.

“Surely thee ought,” cried Tabitha. “After telling me so much, thou shouldst—for Charles’ sake. Otherwise I might misjudge him.”

“Then I’ll tell you everything,” cried Janice, clearly happy in the decision.

“And if he does love you, Jan?” suggestively remarked Tibbie.

“’T will be vastly exciting,” said Janice. “You know, Tibbie, it frightens me a little, for he’s just the kind of man to do something desperate.”

“And—and you would n’t—”

“Tibbie Drinker! A redemptioner!”

“But Janice, he must have been a gentle—”

“What he was, little matters,” interrupted the girl. “He’s a bond-servant now, and even if he were n’t, he’d have a bristly beard—Ugh!”

“Poor fellow,” sighed Tabitha. “’T is not his fault!”

“Nor is ’t mine,” retorted Janice.

A pause of some moments followed and then Janice asked: “Dost think I am promised to Mr. Evatt, Tibbie?”—for let it be confessed that every incident of what she had pledged herself not to tell had been poured out to her confidant.

“I think so,” whispered the girl, “and he being used to court ways would surely know.”

“He ’s—well, he’s a fine figure of a man,” owned Janice. “And tho’ I ne’er intended it, I’d rather ’t would be he than Philemon Hennion or the parson.”

“What if thy father and mother should not consent?” said Tabitha.

“’T would be lovely!” cried Janice, ecstatically. “Just like a romance, you know. And being court-bred, he’d know how to—well—how to give it éclat. Oh, Tibbie, think of making a runaway match and of going to court!”

Much as Tabitha loved her friend, the little green-eyed monster gained possession of her momentarily. “He may be deceiving thee,” she suggested. “Perhaps he never was there.”

“Nay. He knows all the titled people. He was at one of Lady Grafton’s routs, Tibbie, and was spoke to by the Duke of Cumberland!”

For a man falsely to assert acquaintance with a royal duke seemed so impossible to the girl that this was accepted as indisputable proof; driven from her first position, Tibbie remarked, “Perhaps he won’t return. Many ’s the maid been cozened and deserted by the men.”

For a moment, either because this idea did not please Janice or because she needed time to digest it, there was silence.

“Oh, Janice,” sighed Tibbie, presently, “’t is almost past belief that thee has had so much happen to thee.”

But a few weeks before the girl thought the chief part of her experiences the most cruel luck that had ever befallen maiden. Yet so quickly does youth put trouble in the past, and so respondent is it to the romantic view of things, that she now promptly answered,—

“Is ’t not, Tibbie! Am I not a lucky girl? If I only was certain about Thalia, I should be so happy.”