had made up my mind, and was not so easily turned.

Early next morning, Mr. Nathaniel drove up to the door in his
yellow-bottomed chaise. The wheeling was better than the sleighing,
except in the woods.

"Here," he said, "I've ballasted your craft, and made out your papers.
You go in ballast, but'll have good freight back. When you get to
Swampsey-Village meeting-house, turn off to the left, and it's the
second house. The roof behind slants almost to the ground."

The "ballast" was heated stones. The "papers" consisted of a letter,
addressed to "Miss Margaret Holden, at the house of Mr. Oliver Barrows."

The road to Swampsey Village, after running a few miles along by the
sea, branched off to the southwest, over a range of high, wooded hills,
called "The Mountains." 'Twas a long ride, and I couldn't help
_guessing_ what manner of girl would in a few hours be sitting by my
side. Would she be sober, or sociable? pretty, or homely? I hoped she
wouldn't be citified, all pride and politeness. And of all things, I
hoped she would not be bashful. Two dummies, one in each corner, riding
along in the cold!

"Any way," I thought at last, "it's no affair of mine. I'm only sent of
an errand. It's all the same as going for a sheep or a bag of corn." And
with this idea, I whipped up. But the sight of the slanting roof made
me slacken the reins; and when I found myself really hitching my horse,
I was sorry I came.

Before I reached the door, it opened, and there stood a white-haired old