



Produced by Daniel Fromont









[Transcriber's note: Susan Warner (1819-1885) & Anna Warner
(1824-1915), _Say and seal_(1860), Tauchnitz edition 1860 volume 1]






COLLECTION

OF

BRITISH AUTHORS



VOL. CCCXCVIII.



SAY AND SEAL.



IN TWO VOLUMES.



VOL. I.





"If any man make religion as twelve, and the world as thirteen, such a
one hath not the spirit of a true New England man."

HIGGINSON.





PREFACE.



It is a melancholy fact, that this book is somewhat larger than the
mould into which most of the fluid fiction material is poured in this
degenerate age. You perceive, good reader, that it has run over--in the
latest volume.

Doubtless the Procrustean critic would say, "Cut it off,"--which point
we waive.

The book is really of very moderate limits--considering that two women
had to have their say in it.

It is pleasant to wear a glove when one shakes hands with the Public;
therefore we still use our ancestors' names instead of our own,--but it
is fair to state, that in this case there are a pair of gloves!--Which
is the right glove, and which the left, the Public will never know.

A word to that "dear delightful" class of readers who believe
everything that is written, and do not look at the number of the last
page till they come to it--nor perhaps even then. Well they and the
author know, that if the heroine cries--or laughs--too much, it is
nobody's fault but her own! Gently they quarrel with him for not
permitting them to see every Jenny happily married and every Tom with
settled good habits. Most lenient readers!--when you turn publishers,
then will such books doubt less be written! Meantime, hear this.

In a shady, sunshiny town, lying within certain bounds--geographical or
imaginary,--these events (really or in imagination) occurred. Precisely
when, the chroniclers do not say. Scene opens with the breezes which
June, and the coming of a new school teacher, naturally create. After
the fashion of the place, his lodgings are arranged for him beforehand,
by the School Committee. But where, or in what circumstances, the scene
may close,--having told at the end of the book, we do not incline to
tell at the beginning.



ELIZABETH WETHERELL.

AMY LOTHROP.



NEW YORK, _Feb. 1, 1860_.







SAY AND SEAL.



BY

THE AUTHOR OF "WIDE WIDE WORLD,"

AND

THE AUTHOR OF "DOLLARS AND CENTS."



_COPYRIGHT EDITION_.



IN TWO VOLUMES.



VOL. I.



LEIPZIG

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ

1860.







SAY AND SEAL.

VOL. I.







CHAPTER I.



The street was broad, with sidewalks, and wide grass-grown borders, and
a spacious track of wheels and horses' feet in the centre. Great elms,
which the early settlers planted, waved their pendant branches over the
peaceful highway, and gave shelter and nest-room to numerous orioles,
killdeer, and robins; putting off their yellow leaves in the autumn,
and bearing their winter weight of snow, in seeming quiet assurance
that spring would make amends for all. So slept the early settlers in
the churchyard!


Along the street, at pleasant neighbourly intervals--not near enough to
be crowded, nor far enough to be lonely--stood the
houses,--comfortable, spacious, compact,--"with no nonsense about
them." The <DW41> lay like a mere blue thread in the distance, its course
often pointed out by the gaff of some little sloop that followed the
bends of the river up toward Suckiaug. The low rolling shore was
spotted with towns and spires: over all was spread the fairest blue sky
and floating specks of white.

Not many sounds were astir,--the robins whistled, thief-like, over the
cherry-trees; the killdeer, from some high twig, sent forth his sweet
clear note; and now and then a pair of wheels rolled softly along the
smooth road: the rush of the wind filled up the pauses. Anybody who was
down by the <DW41> might have heard the soft roll of his blue
waters,--any one by the light-house might have heard the harsher dash
of the salt waves.

I might go on, and say that if anybody had been looking out of Mrs.
Derrick's window he or she might have seen--what Mrs. Derrick really
saw! For she was looking out of the window (or rather through the
blind) at the critical moment that afternoon. It would be too much to
say that she placed herself there on purpose,--let the reader suppose
what he likes.

At the time, then, that the village clock was striking four, when
meditative cows were examining the length of their shadows, and all the
geese were setting forth for their afternoon swim, a stranger opened
Mrs. Derrick's little gate and walked in. Stretching out one hand to
the dog in token of good fellowship, (a classical mind might have
fancied him breaking the cake by whose help Quickear got past the
lions,) he went up the walk, neither fast nor slow, ascended the steps,
and gave what Mrs. Derrick called "considerable of a rap" at the door.
That done, he faced about and looked at the far off blue <DW41>.

Not more intently did he eye and read that fair river; not more swiftly
did his thoughts pass from the <DW41> to things beyond human ken; than
Mrs. Derrick eyed and read--his back, and suffered her ideas to roam
into the far off regions of speculation. The light summer coat, the
straw hat, were nothing uncommon; but the silk umbrella was too good
for the coat--the gloves and boots altogether extravagant!

"He ain't a bit like the Pattaquasset folks, Faith," she said, in a
whisper thrown over her shoulder to her daughter.

"Mother--"

Mrs. Derrick replied by an inarticulate sound of interrogation.

"I wish you wouldn't stand just there. Do come away!"

"La, child," said Mrs. Derrick, moving back about half an inch, "he's
looking off into space."

"But he'll be in.--"

"Not till somebody goes to the door," said Mrs. Derrick, "and there's
not a living soul in the house but us two."

"Why didn't you say so before? Must I go, mother?"

"He didn't seem in a hurry," said her mother,--"and I wasn't. Yes, you
can go if