The rein dropped from her fingers—the rifle fell upon the neck of her horse, and she sat gazing at me in speechless surprise. At length, in a low murmur, and as if mechanically, she repeated the words:
“My sister Lilian?”
“Yes, Marian Holt—your sister.”
“My name! how can you have become acquainted with it? You know my sister?”
“Know her, and love her—I have given her my whole heart.”
“And she—has she returned your love?”
“Would that I could say surely yes! Alas! I am still in doubt.”
“Your words are strange. O sir, tell me who you are! I need not question what you have said. I perceive that you know my sister—and who I am. It is true: I am Marian Holt—and you? you are from Tennessee?”
“I have come direct from it.”
“From the Obion? perhaps from—”