“He will not mind, and I want you to myself,” he whispered. “I cannot see you to-morrow, love, for it will be Sunday, but Monday or Tuesday I shall come to you. I cannot wait longer.”
Star glanced at him somewhat anxiously.
She knew what that coming would entail upon her—sneers and taunts, and perhaps more unkindness than she had ever yet received from Mrs. Richards or Josephine.
Mr. Richards, she felt assured, would be more considerate of her feelings; yet, under any circumstances, this visit of her lover would be a very trying one.
Ah! how trying, Heaven only knew.
She thought perhaps she ought to tell him something of her life during the last year, that he might not be wholly unprepared when he should present his suit for what she feared would be a very disagreeable interview.
But she was so supremely happy sitting there by his side in the glorious moonlight, and knowing that she was so tenderly beloved, that she could not bear to mar it by so much as a word or thought of what she had suffered in the past, or might have to endure in the future, until he should come for her to claim her as his wife. No, she would not tell him; she would wait until after he had been presented to her guardians. There would be time enough then, and it would be just as well.
But it was a fatal mistake.
Had she told him then, all the pain and anguish, all the misery and hopelessness which she afterward experienced would have been spared her; but how could she know?
So they sailed on up the river, side by side, hand clasped in hand, and thought only of the supreme happiness of the moment.