“There will be plenty of time to talk it over, grandma, before anything need be settled,” Miriam said, with a blush and a shy glance up into her lover’s face.
“Yes,” he said, with a proud, fond look at her; “I appreciate your kindness, dear madam, and could not find it in my heart to make so mean a return as to rob you of your rightful share in one who owes much of her lovely womanhood to your tender care and training.”
CHAPTER XX.
Miriam woke the next morning with a lighter and happier heart than she had carried in her bosom for years; ever since the tide to the cruel War of the Rebellion had swept away the father upon whom she had been wont to lean from early infancy, her young shoulders had borne burdens all too heavy for their strength.
But now one as strong and even dearer than that loved and honored parent had come forward with gallant, tender entreaties that she would let him bear them for her; he would do it from love, and he was no less capable than willing. What a rest it would be to lean on his strength and look to him for guidance and support in the trials and duties of life!
She was up earlier than her wont, though it was a rare occurrence, indeed, when the sun found her in her bed, and came down-stairs with a glad song upon her lips.
Sandy met her in the lower hall. “Gude-mornin’, Miss Mirry,” he said, and she noticed a slight tremble in his voice, a distressed look on his face.
It stopped the song on her lips, and set her heart to beating faster with a nameless fear (such dreadful, dreadful things had happened of late).
“Sandy, what is wrong?” she asked, catching at the balustrade for support.