“Oh, Marion, say no more!” exclaimed her husband in an agitated voice, “it is that thought which so constantly haunts me. For myself, I could forget all; but their unkindness to you—to you, of whom they ought to have been so proud; I cannot forget that!”
“Do not think of it,” said Marion, in a soothing tone; “we must not quarrel with people because they are unable to see things in the same light as ourselves. They knew very little of me, and thought, I dare say, that I prevented your being much happier with a wealthier bride: besides, they may love me yet when you have made your peace, as I know you will,” said she, smiling. “Remember, it is to your parents that you bend, and I never can feel happy while you are as a stranger to them. I suppose it would be my turn next,” said she, with her musical laugh, “if I were to venture to oppose your wishes, or to say a few angry words.”
“Marion!” said her husband reproachfully.
“Well, what security have I,” was the playful retort, “over one who could be contented under such circumstances? You owe to them infinitely more than you do to me—they loved you for years and years before I did. Oh, Edward! your own heart must tell you more than I could ever speak.”
“We will not discuss the subject any further, dear Marion,” said he, and his voice faltered. “Sing to me, will you? The evening never seems perfect without a song from you.”
Marion sang the following lines in a rich and lovely voice:—
THE SPIRIT’S WHISPERINGS.
I roved one morn in a sunlit grove,
Where the mavis was singing his song of love,
Where the wild bee flew on her wing of light,