“Ah!” said Cubina, turning with a proud look towards his sweetheart, “it will be a happy day for all. No, not for all,” added he, his face suddenly assuming an expression of sadness; “not for all. There is one, I fear, to whom that day will not bring happiness!”
“I know one, too, Cubina,” rejoined the girl, her countenance appearing to reflect the expression that had come over his.
“Oh, you know it, too? Miss Vaughan has told you then, I suppose? I hope she does not boast of it?”
“What she boast of, Cubina?”
“Why, of breaking his heart, as you would do mine, if you were to marry somebody else. Poor young fellow! Crambo! If I’m not mistaken, it will be a sad day for him!”
The girl looked up, in puzzled surprise. “Sad day for him! No, Cubina; he very happy. For her—poor missa—that day be sad.”
“Vayate! What do you mean, Yola?”
“No more dan I say, Cubina. Missa Kate be very unhappy that day she marry Mr Mongew—she very so now.”
“What!” exclaimed Cubina, suddenly placing himself in an attitude of unusual attention; “do I understand you to say that Miss Vaughan don’t wish to marry this Mr Smythje?”
“She no love him, Cubina. Why she wish marry him, then?”