THE CYPRESS WREATH.
"Bride, upon thy marriage-day,
Did the fluttering of thy breath
Speak of joy or woe beneath?
And the hue that went and came
On thy cheek like waving flame,
Flowed that crimson from the unrest,
Or the gladness of thy breast?"—Hemans.
"
quire Erliston, can I have a few moments' private conversation with you this morning?" said Oranmore, as he sought the squire, whom Mrs. Gower was just helping to ensconce in his easy-chair.
"Certainly, certainly, my boy. Mrs. Gower, bring the rest of the pillows by and by. 'Time for everything,' as Solomon says. Clear out now, ma'am, while I attend to this young man's case."
Barry Oranmore stood in the middle of the floor, resting one hand lightly on the back of a chair. Squire Erliston, propped up in an easy-chair with pillows and cushions, and wearing an unusually benign expression of countenance—caused, probably, by Miss Aurora's extraordinary quietness on that morning.
"You have doubtless perceived, sir, my attentions to your daughter," went on the young man, in a tone that was almost careless. "Miss Lizzie, I am happy to say, returns my affection; and, in short, sir, I have asked this interview to solicit your daughter's hand."
He bowed slightly, and stood awaiting a reply. The squire jumped from his seat, kicked one pillow to the other end of the room, waved another above his head, and shouted:
"Bless my soul! it's just what I wanted! Give us your hand, my dear boy. Solicit her hand! Take it, take it, with all my heart. If she had a dozen of hands, you should have them all."