The silver arrow was placed on high over the mark, and several gentlemen tried to reach it in vain: Mr. Mountague sprung from the ground with great activity, brought down the arrow, and presented it, with an air of gallantry, to the fair victor.
“My dear Helen,” said Emma to her sister, in a low voice, “you are not well.”
“I!” replied Helen, turning quickly: “why! can you think me so mean as to—”
“Hush, hush! you don’t consider how loud you are speaking.”
“Am I?” said Helen, alarmed, and lowering her tone; “but then, why did you say I was not well?”
“Because you looked so pale.”
“Pale! I’m sure I don’t look pale,” said Helen—“do I?”
“Not now, indeed,” said Emma, smiling.
“Was not it an excellent shot?” said Mr. Mountague, returning to them; “but you were not near enough to see it; do come and look at it.” Mrs. Temple rose and followed him.—“I can’t say,” continued he, “that I particularly admire lady archeresses; but this really is a surprising shot.”
“It really is a surprising shot,” said Helen, looking at it quite at ease. But a moment afterwards she observed that Mr. Mountague’s eyes were not intent upon the surprising shot, but were eagerly turned to another side of the green, where, illuminated by the rays of the setting sun, stood a beautiful figure, playing with a silver arrow, totally unconscious, as he imagined, either of her own charms or his admiration.—“Are you acquainted with Lady Augusta?” said Mr. Mountague.