scarcely looked at me, and retained her angry and offended expression. I
was pained, but could add nothing more to my former assurance that I was
not offended.

Toward evening, I was sitting with a book upon the portico, when Annie
came out of the parlor. She paused on the threshold, evidently hesitated,
but seemed to resolve all at once, what to do. She came quickly to my
side, and holding out her hand said frankly and kindly, with a little
tremor in her voice, and a faint rose-tint in the delicate cheeks:

"I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Mr. Cleave, indeed I did not, sir;
my speech was the thoughtless rudeness of a child. I am sorry, very sorry
that I was ever so ill-bred and unkind; will you pardon me, sir?"

I rose from my seat, and bowed low above the white little hand which lay
in my own, slightly agitated,--

"I have nothing to pardon, Miss Annie," I said, "if you will let me call
you by your household name. I think it very fortunate that my coat was
shabby; had it been a new one, you would never have observed it, and I
should have lost these sweet and friendly accents."

And that is the "incident of the coat."


IV.


The week that has just passed has been a pleasant one. I have thought, a
hundred times, "how good a thing it is to live!"