“Yes, yes, and I have to thank you for it, Mary. You have taught me to be a better girl; I never will be wayward again—indeed I won’t. But I can’t make up my mind to set the time—I know I can’t.”
Mary laid her hand caressingly upon her white forehead, and brushed back the long tresses from it.
“When can you be ready—how long will it take?”
“Oh, I can be all ready by July,” returned Jane, eagerly; then checking herself, she added, “at least I think so. I want to whiten another web of cloth, and Aunt Polly Carter has promised me a rag carpet, though, when it comes to the point, I don’t believe she can find it in her heart to give one away.”
“Then you must tell Edward that you will be ready in July,” Mary said, seriously, not heeding the petty details to which her sister’s mind had wandered. “And oh, remember, Jane, this is one of the most serious moments in your life. Do not leave a single consideration unweighed before you make this decision. It is an important thing to do, my sister.”
“Don’t look so sober and talk so gravely—please don’t! I have thought about it a great deal—I know I shall be happy as—as——”
She paused again, but this time Mary made no effort to urge her completion of the sentence. She sat in dreamy silence, with her eyes bent upon the rushing waters. Jane went on with an effort, and a great seriousness came over her, when she added:
“As Edward Clark’s wife.”
Even her volatile nature was moved by the enunciation of those solemn words which fell—oh, with such desolation—on Mary’s ear. For many moments Jane sat in silence, hiding her face in the folds of her sister’s dress.
Suddenly the sound of oars broke up through the stillness, and Jane started to her feet with a bustle that roused Grandmother Derwent from her reverie.