“Dear father!” she exclaims, laying her hand upon his shoulder, and gazing tenderly into his eyes; “you speak of a change in our circumstances—of bankruptcy and other ills. Let them come! For myself I care not. Even if the alternative were death, I’ve told you—I tell you again—I would rather that, than be the wife of Richard Darke.”
“Then his wife you’ll never be! Now, let the subject drop, and the ruin fall! We must prepare for poverty, and Texas!”
“Texas, if you will, but not poverty. Nothing of the kind. The wealth of affection will make you feel rich; and in a lowly log-hut, as in this grand house, you’ll still have mine.”
So speaking, the fair girl flings herself upon her father’s breast, her hand laid across his forehead, the white fingers soothingly caressing it.
The door opens. Another enters the room—another girl, almost fair as she, but brighter, and younger. ’Tis Jessie.
“Not only my affection,” Helen adds, at sight of the newcomer, “but hers as well. Won’t he, sister?”
Sister, wondering what it is all about, nevertheless sees something is wanted of her. She has caught the word “affection,” at the same time observing an afflicted cast upon her father’s countenance. This decides her; and, gliding forward, in another instant she is by his side, clinging to the opposite shoulder, with an arm around his neck.
Thus grouped, the three figures compose a family picture expressive of purest love.
A pleasing tableau to one who knew nothing of what has thus drawn them together; or knowing it, could truly appreciate. For in the faces of all beams affection, which bespeaks a happy, if not prosperous, future—without any doubting fear of either poverty, or Texas.