“O John! come, you ought to be sincere.”
“Sincere, Lillie! I am sincere.”
“You really would rather have poor, poor little me than a woman like Gracie,—a great, strong, energetic woman?” And Lillie laid her soft cheek down on his arm in pensive humility.
“Yes, a thousand million times,” said John in his enthusiasm, catching her in his arms and kissing her. “I wouldn’t for the world have you any thing but the darling little Lillie you are. I love your faults more than the virtues of other women. You are a thousand times better than I am. I am a great, coarse blockhead, compared to you. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings this noon; you know, Lillie, I’m hasty, and apt to be inconsiderate. I don’t really know that I ought to let you go over next Sunday.”
“O John, you are so good! Certainly if you go I ought to; and I shall try my best.” Then John told her all about the books and the lawn tea, and Lillie listened approvingly.
So they had a lawn tea at the Fergusons that week, where Lillie was the cynosure of all eyes. Mr. Mathews, the new young clergyman of Springdale, was there. Mr. Mathews had been credited as one of the admirers of Rose Ferguson; but on this occasion he promenaded and talked with Lillie, and Lillie alone, with an exclusive devotion.
“What a lovely young creature your new sister is!” he said to Grace. “She seems to have so much religious sensibility.”
“I say, Lillie,” said John, “Mathews seemed to be smitten with you. I had a notion of interfering.”
“Did you ever see any thing like it, John? I couldn’t shake the creature off. I was so thankful when you came up and took me. He’s Rose’s admirer, and he hardly spoke a word to her. I think it’s shameful.”
The next Sunday, Lillie rode over to Spindlewood with John and Rose and Mr. Mathews.