“Gold, is it for that you come?” he said bitterly. “No, no, I have offered tenfold what she has ever taken. It was not for that you came, Aurora, I had rather die than think it. Speak, child, tell me it was not for gold that you sought me!”
“I dared not go home empty-handed, for the grandame would have given me blows,” answered the poor girl, while tears began to run down her cheeks. “I could not dance to others as in former times; yet I never touched a piece of your coin without feeling all the strength leave me—without longing to hide myself from every one. Of late you have never offered money when I came.”
“I know—I know,” said the young man, quickly, “it seemed like a desecration; I could not do it.”
“Oh, how happy I was to feel this, it made me so grateful, but I was afraid of her. Sometimes I would be for hours getting home, in hopes that she would be asleep?”
“My poor child, I never thought of this. Is the old Sibyl cruel to you, then?”
“Every one is cruel to me now—every one but you; and to-night, it seems sometimes, as if you were joining them. What have I done that you should make me weep like the rest?”
“Nothing, my poor Aurora, nothing. The fault is mine; I was annoyed by what you told me of this Chaleco; it made me unreasonable.”
“Was that all?” cried the poor little gipsy, brightening up, and pressing her lips softly down into the palm of his offered hand.
He made no answer, but drew her gently toward him, and for a time they stood together in thoughtful silence. Their eyes were bent on the same object, one that they had usually avoided; for there was little promise of tranquillity in that direction.
Amid the luxuriance of the scene before them, so full of all that might reasonably win the attention, their eyes were fascinated by one object alone, and that so dreary, so uninviting, that it aroused nothing but ideas of sin and wretchedness, unhappy subjects for hearts laden as theirs were with the first sweet impulses of affection.