The old lady laid down her knitting, and leaned on the candle-stand with both her elbows; thus her aged face drew close to that of the young girl.
"You have begun to love this artist youth, Mary Fuller!" she said, in a low whisper, for the very name of love pained her old heart as a sudden shock sends veins of silver along a sheet of ice. "Don't cry, Mary; don't cry; it is a great misfortune, but no fault. How could you help it, poor child!"
"Oh! aunt Hannah, how did you find this out?" whispered the shame-stricken girl, "I thought"—
"That nobody knew it but yourself. Well, well, don't look so frightened; it's no reason that others know it because I do."
"And Joseph, do you think? do you believe? I would not think it for a moment," she continued, with the most touching humility, "but he cannot fancy such a thing—and so I—I did not know but"—
"I think he loves you, Mary Fuller!" answered the old lady, breaking through her hesitating phrases, in womanly pity of her embarrassment.
Mary started as if a blow had fallen upon her.
"Oh! don't, don't, I dare not believe it. What? me?—me? Please don't say this, aunt Hannah, it makes the very heart quiver in my bosom."
"I am sure he loves you, Mary, or I would not say it. Do I ever joke?
Am I blind at heart?"
Mary Fuller covered her face, while great sobs of joy broke in her bosom, and rushed in tears to her eyes.