“Dear me! I’m sorry,” said aunt Betsey, “for, Hesper, I tell you the truth—I verily believe you will be an old maid, and if you don’t talk up to Mr. Clyde or somebody, pretty soon, it will be a gone case with you.”
“Very well,” replied Hesper—“if it depends upon my making the first advances, my fate is already decided, and my case hopeless, for I never shall offer myself directly or indirectly to any man.”
“But,” said aunt Betsey, after a few moment’s thoughtful silence—“if you should change your mind, and Mr. Clyde or some one else should offer himself, do let me know in time, for that satin bed-quilt of mine, is packed away in the attic, with a whole chest full of other clothes, and I want to get it down to shake, and brush, and air it as it should be, before I make you a present of it; for I never shall do the least thing in the world with it.”
“Well,” said Hesper, “I will let you know in time;” and with this promise aunt Betsey seemed perfectly contented. She looked very graciously over her spectacles at Mr. Clyde, when he came in, and in the course of conversation, took occasion to remark that she thought Hesper had improved wonderfully during her absence from home. She was most unusually condescending and amiable, and when she arose to depart, she remarked that she should call often while Mr. Clyde was there, as she enjoyed the conversation of such intelligent people very much.
There was a glorious sunset that evening. The whole western sky seemed all a blaze with the gold and crimson splendors of the King of Day. The trees and the green hill-tops were glowing with the radiant light, and the ocean, in its waveless calm, reflecting back the brightness of the heavens, seemed like a molten sea of gold.
“Come, Hesper,” said Mr. Clyde, “let us go along the brook side, and climb up the old rock, where we can watch these sunset fires die out on Nature’s altar.”
“Ah! this makes me think of old Italy!” he said, as they wandered along the forest path—“fair Italy! And yet, with all the splendor and beauty of that favored clime, which I have so often gazed upon, this scene is dearer far to me, because it is my own native land.”
“There is no place like home, after all, Hesper,” he added, as he put forth his arm to aid her up the steep ascent; “I cannot tell you how often my heart turned back with an unutterable yearning to these shores, and even to this very spot, where I saw you last, weaving violets and green leaves together, while the lights and shadows through the forest boughs were playing across your countenance.”
“You have changed very much since then,” he continued, as he looked her thoughtfully in the face. “You are less of the child, and more of the woman now, in experience. There is a soft and chastened expression upon every feature, and in your eyes a deep, spiritual light, such as can only come through a long and trying discipline of sorrow. O Hesper, you and I both know what it is to pass under the shadow of a great and desolating grief, but your soul has come out chastened and purified by the trial, while mine still lingers in darkness and unreconciliation. My very existence, as it creeps slowly onward, day by day, has become a wearisome burden—- for what is the future without hope, or life without love?”