indefinite number of years,--I invariably saw myself sitting by my own
fireside, with a gentle-faced woman making pinafores near me, a cradle
close by, and one or two chaps reading stories, or playing checkers with
beans and buttons. But this gentle maker of pinafores had never yet
assumed a tangible shape. She had only floated before me, in my lonely
moments, enveloped in mist, and far too indistinct for revealing the
color of the eyes and hair. So I could not be in love with Rachel,--her
name was Rachel Lowe,--only a sort of magnetism, as it would be called
in these days, drew my eyes constantly that way. I soon found, however,
that it was impossible to watch her face with that indifference with
which, as I have before stated, it had been my custom to regard female
beauty. Its peculiar expression puzzled me, and I kept trying to study
it out. Interesting, but dangerous study! The difficulties of
school-keeping are by no means fully appreciated.

One evening, after school, the young folks stopped to slide down-hill.
Rachel and a few little girls stood awhile, watching the sleds go by;
but it was cold standing still, and they soon moved homewards. I walked
along by the side of Rachel: this was the first time I ever went home
with her. I found she was living in the family of Squire Brewster, a
family in which I had not yet boarded. After this I frequently walked
home with her. Sometimes I would determine not to do so again, for I was
afraid I was getting--I didn't know where, but where I had never been
before; but when evening came, and I saw how handsome she looked, and
how all alone, I couldn't help it. It was not often I could get her to
talk much. She was bashful, different from any girl I had ever met. The
only friend she seemed to have was the young wife of the Doctor, Mrs.
James. The Doctor, she said, had attended her through a fever, and asked
no pay. His wife was kind, and lent her books to read.