"'How glows the firmament with living sapphires
Hesperus that led—'"
Fortunately for Miss Heath, who feared the parson was about to favor her with a book or two of "Paradise Lost," Bob Mumbie came up to claim her for a redowa, and the Rev. Spencer Abbott sauntered off and betook himself to a critical examination, accompanied with poetical comments, of Mercedita Heath's fan. Mark noticed that Edna had left her handkerchief on the tripod near the window, and as Fred Spooner had darted away with Miss Mumbie and the coast was clear, a sudden and uncontrollable desire seized him to possess this handkerchief. Yielding to the impulse, and without further reflection, he raised the lower sash of the window, crouched under the tripod, snatched the coveted article, and frightened at his temerity, instantly withdrew. He hastened homeward, pressing the bit of cambric to his lips, and rhapsodizing as he went along like a demented Strephon. When he arrived home, he found his sister-in-law sitting up for him. She noticed that he looked somewhat flushed and disturbed, but as he seemed to avoid her scrutinizing eyes, she did not question him.
What a night of fever and torment he passed! The conflicting emotions that agitated him banished sleep. The delicate web he had filched lay under his burning cheek and throbbing temples; its subtle perfume intoxicated him, evoking ecstatic glamour and vivid visions of Edna's face radiant with joy and beauty. Then jealousy swept the chords of his sensitive nature, as he recalled the smiles bestowed on his presumed rival, and bitter curses on his defective foot followed, until, in the struggle between tumultuous passion and reason, his better sense triumphed, and tears bedewed his eyes—tears of vexation that he should be so childish, so vain, and envious. As he lay thus, his door was softly opened, and he heard the voice of his sister-in-law inquiring if he were indisposed?
"No, no, Sister Margaret, thank you. Please don't disturb yourself."
"I heard a noise, and feared you might be taken ill."
"No, thank you. Please leave me." His heart was stilled at this fresh evidence of tender solicitude on the part of one, who had been to him all that a mother could be. He contrasted her calm, cheerful ways and unselfishness with his egotism and discontent. Repentant, he prayed to be forgiven, and soon after fell asleep.
IX.
The next morning his jaded face told plainly of the mental struggle he had undergone. He took up Edna's handkerchief, pressed it to his lips reverentially, as if it had been a shred from the robe of a saint, and then reflected how he should return it to its owner without exciting suspicion or betraying his impertinent freak. "She's a seraph and I'm an idiot!" was his pithy conclusion, "An egregious and presumptuous idiot! If she knew all, what a laughing-stock I should be to her! I will not think of her again, but as one to worship. What am I, or what have I done to merit any favor from her? What could she ever possibly see in me? I must and shall try to forget her. No—I would be very ungrateful to do that. But I must only esteem, respect, and worship her at a distance; and if she prefers that tall, girlish, dancing-Jack, why—no, I have no right to think that. Well, I must return the handkerchief in some way, and then we shall be henceforth as strangers—not exactly strangers—but I will only think of her as an acquaintance."
He held to this resolution for at least a week, rigidly schooling his heart to submission; but alas, this resolve met the fate of its kind, for on the eighth day he accidentally saw the disturber of his peace, and away to the four winds of heaven went all humility and self-abnegation. And he met her of all places—in a workshop. Edna happened to be passing the Archimedes Works on her return from the stationer's, when the proprietor, who was looking out of the window of his counting-room, caught a glimpse of her, and going out accosted the young lady, much to her surprise, with a request to walk into his office a moment as he wanted to consult her. She good-naturedly complied, and went into the room, where the old book-keeper bustled about to dust a chair for her, and the junior clerks were rather distracted from their labors by the apparition of such a visitor.