But what else he said the murmuring river never told, neither the summer air which lifted the shining tresses falling over his arm, nor yet the little bird, which from the overhanging bough looked archly down upon them, shutting its round, bright eye with a knowing look as if it understood that scene. It did understand, and the sight of them sitting there thus brought to mind the dainty nest up in the maple tree, where its own loved mate was waiting, and when at last the maiden lifted up her head, it plumed its wings for flight and flew away, singing as it flew.
“She’s won—she’s won.”
That night Alice, instead of Mr. Howland, was missing from the table, and when Miss Elinor sought her in her room, she was surprised at the abruptness with which the young girl threw her arms around her neck and whispered:
“I am happy—oh, so happy.”
Then, with the twilight shadows gathering around, Alice told her story to the wondering lady, who in her joy forgave her brother for his unjust insinuation, and folding the orphan girl lovingly in her arms, she told her how gladly she should welcome her as a sister. It was known ere long all over town that the wealthy Mr. Howland was to wed the blind man’s daughter, and the rude brown rafters of the cottage in the hollow never witnessed so fierce a storm of passion and of tears as on the night when first to Adelaide came tidings that the man she so much loved had given himself to another. To William Huntington, however, the news brought joy and gladness. He had recovered from his broken limb, but his health did not improve, and now he seldom left his home. Still he did whatever he could do for his family, and the little yard in front of his house was filled with flowers, which he tended with the utmost care, and sold in small bouquets to such of the villagers as wished to buy. When he heard that Alice was to be a bride ere the summer days were gone, he set apart his choicest flowers, watching them with jealous care, and experiencing a childish delight in thinking how he would form a rare bouquet, worthy of her to whom it should be given.
There was no reason why the marriage should be delayed, Mr. Howland said, and so one balmy night, when the harvest moon was in its infancy, St. Luke’s Church was filled to overflowing, and the same man, who, over Hugo Warren’s grave, had read the burial service, now spoke the solemn words which made one flesh of two. And when the rite was ended and Alice was a bride, from the three towers of Oakland there rang a merry peal, for Mr. Howland was greatly honored by the citizens who thus would keep his wedding night.
Across the grassy meadow, up the wooded hill, and down into the hollow, floated the music of those bells, awakening an answering note of joy in every heart save that of the wretched Adelaide, who, grinding her teeth together, fled to her lonely garret and stuffed cotton in her ears, so as to shut out the hateful sound, which told her of her rival’s happiness. Anon, and from the rocky heights which overlooked the town, and from the village green, there shone a lurid light. Bonfires had been kindled by the workmen from the factory and shop, and among the boys who danced around the blazing fire, none threw his hat so high or cut so many antics as did the little Check, who in his bran-new suit, the gift of Mr. Howland, forgot his grievances on that memorable day when his master tried to see how it would seem, to live without Alice Warren.
From her window Adelaide looked out upon the scene, shedding bitter tears of envy and of rage, then, wishing she had never seen the light of day she sought her solitary pillow and cried herself to sleep, while the song and the dance moved joyously on, and the gentle bride, in her robes of white, looked lovingly up to him who was her all in all. Nor were the inmates of the brown house in the hollow forgotten by Alice in her prosperity. From Mr. Huntington she had received a beautiful bouquet; it was all, save his blessing, that he had to give, he said, and Alice prized it the more when she knew how carefully he had watched each opening bud, shielding it alike from storm and noonday heat.
“I will remember him for this,” she thought, and many a timely gift found its way to the brown cottage where it was sorely needed, for as the fall advanced Mr. Huntington grew worse, and to the other labors of his family was added the task of ministering to him and providing for his wants.
As yet, no rent for the cottage had been paid, and Miss Elinor, when she remembered the ugly name which Adelaide had called her, secretly wished she might be turned into the street. But her brother was more forgiving, and when Alice’s birthday came, he gave her the brown house in the hollow, telling her playfully that she must collect the rent of her own property!