Pretty Peggy May; a bright-eyed, merry-hearted, little darling you are, Peggy! there's no gainsaying that fact; a cunning little gipsy, and most destructive too, as many an aching heart can testify. But who can blame thee for that? as well might the summer's sun be blamed for warming the sweet flowers into life. It is a natural ordination that all who see you should love you.
Pretty Peg has just completed her eighteenth year; in the heedless gaiety of youth, she has hitherto gambolled through the road of life, without a grief, almost without a thought. Oh! for the sunny days of childhood, ere, wedded to experience, the soul brings forth its progeny of cares. Why can we not add the knowledge of our wiser years, and linger over that most blessed, least prized period of our existence, when every impulse is at once obeyed, and the ingenuous soul beams forth in smiles, its every working indexed in the face—ere Prudence starts up like a spectre, and cries out: "Beware! there is a prying world that watches every turn, and does not always make a true report." Prudence! how I hate the cold, calculating, heartless phrase. Be loyal in word, be just in act, be honest in all; but Prudence! 'tis twin-brother to Selfishness, spouse of Mistrust, and parent of Hypocrisy! But, me-thinks I hear some one say, "This is a most cavalierly way of treating one of the cardinal virtues"—to which I reply, "It certainly has, by some means or another, sneaked in amongst the virtues, and thereby established a right to the position; but it is the companionship only which makes it respectable, and it must be accompanied by all the rest to neutralize its mischievous tendency."
But what has all this to do with Peggy and her dreams? Pshaw! don't be impatient—we are coming to that. If you have taken the slightest interest in little Peg, prepare to sympathize in her first heart-deep sorrow. She is in love! Now, if she herself were questioned about the matter, I'm pretty sure she would say it's no such thing; but I take upon myself to declare it to be true, and for fear you should think that I make an assertion which I cannot substantiate, permit me to relate the substance of a conversation which took place between Peg and her scarcely less pretty, but infinitely more mischievous cousin, Bridget O'Conner. They had just returned from one of those gregarious merry-meetings, where some spacious granary, just emptied of its contents, gives glorious opportunity for the gladsome hearts of the village, and "all the country round" to meet and astonish the rats—sleek, well-fed rascals, dozing in their holes—with uproarious fun and revelry.
A sudden, and indeed, under the circumstances, extremely significant sigh from Peg, startled Bridget from the little glass where she was speculating as to how she looked, for the last hour or two. I may as well say the scrutiny was perfectly satisfactory—she had not danced all her curls out.
"Gracious me!" she exclaimed, "Peg, how you do sigh!"
"And no wonder," rejoined Peggy, with a slight squeeze of acid, "after having danced down twenty couple twenty times, I should like to know who wouldn't?"
"Ah! but that wasn't a tired sigh, Peg. I know the difference; one needn't dive as low as the heart for them; a tired sigh comes flying out upon a breath of joy, and turns into a laugh before it leaves the lips; you are sad, Peg!"
"How you talk; why, what on earth should make me sad?"
"That's exactly what I want to know; now there's no use in your trying to laugh, for you can't do it. Do you think I don't know the difference between a laugh and that nasty deceitful croak?"
"Bridget!" exclaimed Peg, with a look which she intended should be very severe and very reproachful, "I'm sleepy."