Many a match-making mother would gladly have entrapped him for her daughter, and many a daughter, perchance, might have accepted his hand, had it been offered, but it was not. No one could elicit anything beyond politeness from him.
He turned to a dark-eyed beauty, who sat beside him, asking her if she was acquainted with Miss Clinton.
She blushed, stammered,
"Why, no; I am not now--that is, I used to be when she went into society, that is before her father's death--before she was a dress-maker."
Henry turned away, disgusted with this indefinite intelligence. For a moment a slight smile of scorn rested upon his lip, and a darker expression shaded his countenance; but it lingered not. The usual happy smile returned again, and holy charity came back to his heart.
The evening passed sadly to Henriette. She was with her dear schoolmates--the friends of her early days, and her heart yearned for the dear familiar tones that then fell upon her ear, and in spite of her every effort, the tear trickled down her cheek. She turned to the window, and looked out upon the blue waters and the grey sides of the lofty mountain, that seemed looking down upon her in sympathy, like the Mighty Power that created it.
She was roused from her reverie by the voice of Ellen, who presented Mr. Lorton, he having earnestly solicited an introduction. They conversed pleasantly upon the beauties of the surrounding scenery, and before the party broke up he requested permission to visit her at her boarding house, the next evening.
There were some sly glances, but it was the independent Henry Lorton, and little was said.
The next evening he visited Henriette, offered her his heart and hand, and was accepted. They appointed an early day for the wedding. Henry adding,
"We will give the people an agreeable surprise."