“No, darling, nor ever shall be. Why?”
“Why, I thought you must be, or you would have come before.”
“I could not, Dora. I have been locked in my room ever since that night, and I climbed down the trellis to come to you to-night. I ran away!”
He flushed with shame that he was obliged to say it.
“You have, you did?” said Dora, with flashing eyes. “I don’t care, I think your father is a wicked, naughty man, and I hope God will punish him.”
“Hush, darling, for I have something worse than that to tell you.”
And he told her all that had passed between him and his father, only keeping back what he had said of her, and that he was to start for a far-off country on the morrow.
Again the flood-gates were opened, and torrents poured from the riven heart. She clung to him with a death-like grip, crying out, in her agony, “that she would not let him go—that they would make him love some one else, and she should never see him again, and she should be, oh! so lonely that she should surely die!”
The poor boy hardly knew how to comfort her, and really did not know but she would die, while his own heart ached almost to bursting at the sad parting.
“No, Dora, dear,” at length he gravely replied, “you will not die. You will have your mother to love you, and I shall never forget you while I live. Now, listen to me, and promise to do as I ask you. I want you to mind your mother in everything, for she knows best what is right; I want you to study hard, and learn all you can; and do not be naughty any more about practicing your music; for I am going to get the best education I can, and I shall come back for you some day, and I want to feel proud of my little wife. Yes, Dora, I want you to be as nice a young lady then as Miss Annie Burton is now. Will you promise to try?”