'And now,' whispered she, stealing her arms about my neck, and looking earnestly into my eyes, while her whole frame shook, 'and now what did he say?'
'Mary,' said I, with a serious tone and aspect, 'you must collect your ideas, and listen attentively, for I have much to disclose. Do you recollect a letter that I got you to write for me when I was here last?'
'Letter—' muttered she. 'Letter.—Yes, I believe I do. Oh! yes, I recollect it well; for it was a sad letter to your sweetheart, telling him that you had married another; and your sweetheart's name was William; and I thought, at the time, I would never write such a letter to my own William.'
'And yet, Mary,' said I, 'your own William got that letter, by some mistake,' (for I could not bear to tell the real fact) 'that very evening; and seeing it in your hand-writing, and addressed to William, he thought it was from you to him; and so he gave you back your presents, and——'
'What is all that?' cried Mary, starting up. 'Merciful powers! say all that over again!'
I made her sit down, and I shewed her the letter. As she read it, her colour changed, her lip quivered, her hand shook; and at the conclusion, she dropped it with a dreadful groan, and remained quite motionless.
'Mary!' cried I, 'dear Mary, do not look so. Speak, Mary,' and I stirred her shoulder; but she still sat motionless with a fixed smile.
'I shall, I will see her!' cried the voice of William at a distance; and the next instant he was seated breathless by her side.
'Mary, my Mary!' cried he in the most touching accents.
At the well-known voice, she started, and turned towards him; but in a moment averted her face, and rose as pale as ashes. Then drawing some letters and baubles from her bosom, she threw them into his lap, and began gently disarranging her hair, all the time looking sideways at him, with an air of pretty dignity.