Mary lifted her eyes to his face as he spoke. The unshed tears trembled like diamonds within them. She became very thoughtful, and drooped slowly downward, coloring faintly beneath his eyes, as maidens sometimes blush at their own innocent thoughts when nothing but the eye of God is upon them.
“But there is another love, my father; I have seen it at the school and in the cabins, I have watched it as I have the mountain flowers, and thought that God meant this love for me, like the rest; but when I go among other girls, no one will ever think that I am one of them—no one but Edward Clark, and he only feels pity-love for me; to all the rest I am a hunchback.”
A look of great trouble came upon the face of the missionary. For some moments he did not answer, and the poor girl drooped by his side. The blush faded from the snow of her forehead, and she trembled all over with vague shame of the words she had spoken. His silence seemed like a reproach to her.
“My child!”—oh! with what holy sweetness the words fell from his lips—“my child, it is true; this love must never be yours.”
“Never!” echoed the pale lips of the child. “Never!”
“This dream of love, give it up, Mary, while it is but a dream,” added the missionary, in a firmer voice. “To many more than yourself it is a hope never, never realized. Do not struggle for it—do not pine for it—God help you! child—God help us all!”
The anguish in his voice thrilled her to the soul. She bent her forehead meekly to his knee, murmuring:
“I will try to be patient—but, oh! do not look at me so mournfully.”
He laid his hands softly under her forehead, and, lifting her face to his gazed mournfully upon it, as if his soul were looking far away through her eyes into the dim past.
“Father, believe me, I will try.”