“Oh, Frederic,” she cried, holding fast to his hand, as they made their way up town—“oh, Frederic, I wonder Marian didn’t get crazy and die. I’m sure I should. I’m almost distracted now. Where are all those people and carts going that I hear running by us so fast, and what makes them keep pushing me so hard. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn’t come!” and as some one just then jostled her more rudely than usual, Alice began to cry.
“Never mind,” said Frederic soothingly, “we are almost there, and we will take a carriage back. Folks can’t push you then;” and in stooping down to comfort the little girl, he failed to see the graceful figure passing so near him that the hem of her dress fluttered against his boot.
They had come upon each other so suddenly that there was not time for the brown vail to be dropped, neither was it needful, for so absorbed was Frederic with his charge that he neither knew nor dreamed how near to Marian Lindsey he had been.
Alice’s tears being dried, they kept on their way, and when the picture was taken, Frederic did it up and directing it to Ben Butterworth, sent it to the office, then calling a carriage, he took Alice, as he had promised, all over the great city. And Alice enjoyed it very much, laying back on the soft cushions, and knowing that no one could touch her of all the noisy throng she heard so distinctly, but could not see. It was a day long talked of by the blind girl, and she asked Mrs. Huntington to write a description of it to the negroes, who she knew fancied that Louisville was the largest city in the world.
Not long after this, something which Mrs. Huntington said about her daughter determined Frederic to visit her and make the explanation which he felt it his duty to make, for he knew he had given her some reason to think he intended asking her to be his wife. He accordingly feigned some excuse for going to New Haven, and one morning found himself at the door where Isabel was stopping.
“Give her this,” he said, handing his card to the servant who carried it at once to the delighted young lady.
“Frederic Raymond,” read Isabel. “Oh, yes. Tell him I’ll be down in a moment,” and she proceeded to arrange her hair a little more becomingly, and made several changes in her dress, so that the one minute was nearly fifteen ere she started for the parlor, where Frederic was rather dreading her coming, for he scarcely knew what he wished to say.
Half timidly she greeted him as a bashful maiden is supposed to meet her lover, and seating herself at a respectful distance from him, she asked numberless questions concerning his health, her numberless friends in Kentucky, her mother, and dear little Alice, who, she presumed, did not miss her much.
“Your mother’s presence reminds us of you very often, of course,” returned Frederic, “but you know we can get accustomed to almost anything, and Alice seems very happy.”
“Yes,” sighed Isabel. “You will all forget me, I suppose, even to mother—but for me I have not been quite contented since I left Kentucky. I thought it tiresome to teach, and perhaps was sometimes impatient and unreasonable, but I have often wished myself back again. I don’t seem to be living for anything now,” and Isabel’s black eyes studied the pattern of the carpet quite industriously.