Juno had been annoyed then, but now fierce jealousy took possession of her heart as she watched the girl whom all seemed to admire, even Wilford feeling a thrill of pride that the possession of so attractive a sister-in-law reflected credit upon himself.
He was not ashamed of her now, nor did he retain a single thought of the farm-house or Uncle Ephraim as he made his way to her side, standing protectingly at her left, just as Mark was standing at her right, and at last asking her to dance.
With a heightened color Helen declined, saying frankly,
“I have never learned.”
“You miss a great deal,” Wilford rejoined, appealing to Mark for a confirmation of his words.
But Mark did not heartily respond. He, too, had solicited Helen as a partner when the dancing first commenced, and her quiet refusal had disappointed him a little, for Mark was fond of dancing, and though as a general thing he disapproved of waltzes and polkas when he was the looker-on, he felt that there would be something vastly agreeable and exhilarating in clasping Helen in his arms and whirling her about the room just as Juno was being whirled by a young cadet, a friend of Lieutenant Bob’s. But when he reflected that not his arm alone would encircle her waist, or his breath touch her neck, he was glad she did not dance, and professing a weariness he did not feel, he declined to join the dancers on the floor, but kept with Helen, enjoying what she enjoyed, and putting her so perfectly at her ease that no one would ever have dreamed of the curdy cheeses she had made, or the pounds of butter she had churned. But Mark thought of it as he secretly admired the neck and arms, seen once before, on that memorable day when he assisted Helen in the labors of the dairy. If nothing else had done so, the lily in her hair would have brought that morning to his mind, and once as they walked up and down the hall he spoke of the ornament she had chosen, and how well it became her.
“Pond lilies are my pets,” he said, “and I have kept one of those I gathered when at Silverton. Do you remember them?” and his eyes rested upon Helen with a look which made her blush as she answered yes; but she did not tell him of a little box at home, made of cones and acorns, where was hidden a withered water lily, which she could not throw away, even after its beauty and fragrance had departed.
Had she told him this, it might have put to flight the doubts troubling Mark so much, and making him wonder if Dr. Grant had really a claim upon the girl stealing his heart so fast.
“I mean to sound her,” he thought, and as Lieutenant Bob passed by, making some jocose remark about his offending all the fair ones by the course he was taking, Mark said to Helen, who suggested returning to the parlor,
“As you like, though it cannot matter; a person known to be engaged is above Bob Reynolds’s jokes.”