“I do not want to let Colonel Gwyn be,” said he quietly. “On the contrary, I came down here specially to talk of him.”
“Ah, I perceive that you have been speaking with my mother,” said she, continuing her work.
“Mary, my dear, I have been thinking about you very earnestly of late,” said he.
“Only of late!” she cried. “Ah! I flattered myself that I had some of your thoughts long ago as well.”
“I have always thought of you with the truest affection, dear child. But latterly you have never been out of my thoughts.” She ceased her work and looked towards him gratefully—attentively. He left his seat and went to her side.
“My sweet Jessamy Bride,” said he, “I have thought of your future with great uneasiness of heart. I feel towards you as—as—perhaps a father might feel, or an elder brother. My happiness in the future is dependent upon yours, and alas! I fear for you; the world is full of snares.”
“I know that,” she quietly said. “Ah, you know that I have had some experience of the snares. If you had not come to my help what shame would have been mine!”
“Dear child, there was no blame to be attached to you in that painful affair,” said he. “It was your tender heart that led you astray at first, and thank God you have the same good heart in your bosom. But alas! 'tis just the tenderness of your heart that makes me fear for you.”
“Nay; it can become as steel upon occasions,” said she. “Did not I send Colonel Gwyn away from me?”
“You were wrong to do so, my Mary,” he said. “Colonel Gwyn is a good man—he is a man with whom your future would be sure. He would be able to shelter you from all dangers—from the dangers into which your own heart may lead you again as it led you before.”