"I have no fear of interruption," said Marian.
"Yet you will not refuse to let me attend you? Do not, Marian!" he pleaded, earnestly, fervently, clasping her hand, and pouring the whole strength of his soul in the gaze that he fastened on her face.
"I thank you; but you were riding the other way."
"It was merely an idle saunter, to help to kill the time between this and Sunday, dearest girl. Now, rest you, my queen! my queen! upon this mossy rock, as on a throne, while I ride forward and leave my horse. I will be with you again in fifteen minutes; in the meantime here is something for you to look at," he said, drawing from his pocket an elegant little volume bound in purple and gold, and laying it in her lap. He then smiled, sprang into his saddle, bowed, and galloped away, leaving Marian to examine her book. It was a London copy of Spenser's Fairy Queen, superbly illustrated, one of the rarest books to be found in the whole country at that day. On the fly-leaf the name of Marian was written, in the hand of Thurston.
Some minutes passed in the pleasing examination of the volume; and Marian was still turning the leaves with unmixed pleasure—pleasure in the gift, and pleasure in the giver—when Thurston, even before the appointed time, suddenly rejoined her.
"So absorbed in Spenser that you did not even hear or see me!" said the young man, half reproachfully.
"I was indeed far gone in Fairy Land! Oh, I thank you so much for your beautiful present! It is indeed a treasure. I shall prize it greatly," said Marian, in unfeigned delight.
"Do you know that Fairy Land is not obsolete, dearest Marian?" he said, fixing his eyes upon her charming face with an ardor and earnestness that caused hers to sink.
"Come," she said, in a low voice, and rising from the rock; "let us leave this place and go forward."
They walked on, speaking softly of many things—of the vision of Spenser, of the beautiful autumnal weather, of anything except the one interest that now occupied both hearts. The fear of startling her bashful trust, and banishing those bewitching glances that sometimes lightened on his face, made him cautious, and restrained his eagerness; while excessive consciousness kept her cheeks dyed with blushes, and her nerves vibrating sweet, wild music, like the strings of some aeolian harp when swept by the swift south wind.