“But is it a duty?” she asked.
“Your fa—Mr. Roughgrove says so.”
“Then let us go! But why did you not say father?”
“He is not your father.”
“No!” exclaimed the maid, turning pale.
“I will tell thee all, Mary.” And Glenn related the story of the maiden’s birth. “Now, Mary,” he continued, “thou knowest thine own history. Thou art of a noble race, according to the rules of men—nay, thy blood is royal—if thou wouldst retract thy plighted faith (I should have told thee this before,) speak, and thy will shall be done!”
“Oh! Charles! I am thine, THINE ONLY, were I born an angel!” she cried, throwing herself into his arms. At this juncture a violent rustling was heard in the bushes not far distant, and the next moment Joe’s voice rang out.
“Oh me! Oh St. Peter! Oh murder! murder! murder!” cried he. Instantly all the party were collected round him. He lay in a small open space on the grass, with his basket bottom upward at his side, and all the berries scattered on the ground.
“What is the matter?” asked Glenn.
“Oh, I’m snake-bitten! I’m a dead man! I’m dying!” cried he, piteously.