Mary arose, the joy at her heart swelled painfully, and her delicate frame trembled beneath it. She would gladly have crept from the room with her sweet burden of happiness, but this excitement had been continued too long; her limbs gave way and she sank to the floor.
"Who is here? what is this?" cried the youth; "has another heard my mad confession?"
"I heard it all, forgive me, forgive me. I could not go out; at the first attempt my strength gave way"—
"You heard me?" questioned the youth, pale and trembling. "You heard all that I said. Girl, girl, you have stolen the secret from my heart to despise me for it."
Mary Fuller rose to her feet, and drew towards him. The beauty of an angel glowed in her face; it was bright with holy courage.
"Despise you for it! I, who love you so much!"
"Love me! Stop, Mary, do not say this if it is not holy truth, such as one honest heart may render to another."
"It is holy truth. Take my hands in yours. See how they quiver with the joy of your words."
"But I am poor, Mary Fuller, I am stricken in all my strength."
"And I, what am I?"