"Jennie," said her companion, noticing the bitterness that passed over her young face, and wishing to dissipate any mournful musings, "do you know why I asked you to come alone with me to Blinkdale to-day?"
Aroused thus suddenly, the young girl started from her lowly seat, and patting its mossy side with her foot, replied, "How should I, Henry, unless it be that it is always pleasanter to have one companion who can understand and appreciate your love of nature, than to be surrounded in your walks by many who care only for merriment and chatting. I could spend the whole day in these solemn old woods with nothing to amuse me but my own thoughts."
"And yet, I doubt if your pensive musings would be profitable to you," said her companion; "there is something dirge-like in the music of nature that begets a morbid sort of feeling in a mind like yours, Jennie, and too much of such solitude would injure you. Pardon me," continued he, as he caught her half comic inquisitive gaze; "but your character has been my study for a long, long time."
"Not more profitable to you than my solitary reveries, I fancy," said Jennie.
"But more delightful to me than any study," replied Henry, and seating her again upon the bank near him, he told her all—how he had watched her growing graces both of heart and mind, since the first time they had met beneath her grandfather's porch; how he had striven in his profession for her sake; how he had suffered his whole soul to go out toward her in a hallowed and sincere affection; and how cold, and dead, and sad his life must be if she reciprocated not his tenderness; and then, with a flushed and anxious face, he awaited her answer.
Oh! how weary was the walk home! The woods were dark and dreary, and the steps of the young man heavy and listless, as he sauntered on beside his silent and suffering companion. Life had gained a new and somber aspect to her too, since she was the cause of a crushing sorrow to one who had lavished upon her his heart's breath. Why could he not be content with the sisterly regard she had ever felt toward him? It is so terrible to see him in his manly grief, and to feel that she may avert it! And yet, how can it be otherwise, since there is ever before her a pale face, with its spiritual eyes fixed on her soul calling forth all that she has to bestow.
CHAPTER XXX.
Standing alone that evening in the bay-window of her uncle's study, Jennie gazed out upon the peaceful moonlit scene, trying to derive from it a tranquillity which the day's events had banished, when a loving arm was wound about her, and a low voice said, "May I share your thoughts this evening, my child?"
"It is you, is it, uncle!" said Jennie; "your step was so ghost-like that I did not hear you enter."