O lady! there be many things
That seem right fair above;
But sure not one among them all
Is half so sweet as love;—
Let us not pay our vows alone,
But join two altars into one.
—O. W. HOLMES
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast,
And the heart, and the hand, all thy own to the last.
—MOORE.
Mr. Horace Dinsmore was quite remarkable for his conversational powers, and Rose, who had always heretofore found him a most entertaining companion, wondered greatly at his silence on this particular evening. She waited in vain for him to start some topic of conversation, but as he did not seem disposed to do so, she at length made the attempt herself, and tried one subject after another. Finding, however, that she was answered only in monosyllables, she too grew silent and embarrassed, and heartily wished for the relief of Elsie's presence.
She had proposed summoning the child to accompany them as usual, but Mr. Dinsmore replied that she had already had sufficient exercise, and he would prefer having her remain at home.
They had walked some distance, and coming to a rustic seat where they had often rested, they sat down. The moon was shining softly down upon them, and all nature seemed hushed and still. For some moments neither of them spoke, but at length Mr. Dinsmore broke the silence.
"Miss Allison," he said, in his deep, rich tones, "I would like to tell you a story, if you will do me the favor to listen."
It would have been quite impossible for Rose to tell why her heart beat so fast at this very commonplace remark, but so it was; and she could scarcely steady her voice to reply, "I always find your stories interesting, Mr. Dinsmore."
He began at once.