"One thing is clear—it is no use to cry for spilt milk," muttered he, as he jumped over the fence into the road. "I have been stupid, but try again."
Unfortunately, there was no chance to try again. Like thousands of blessed opportunities, it had passed by, never to return. He had come at the eleventh hour, and the door was closed against him. With the wagon it had been "now or never."
Harry got over his impatience, and resolved that Julia should not come to the cabin, the next morning, to find he had slept when the bridegroom came. He had a pair of legs, and there was the road. It was no use to "wait for the wagon;" legs were made before wagon wheels; and he started on the long and weary pilgrimage.
He had not advanced ten paces before pleasant sounds reached his ears. He stopped short, and listened. A wagon was certainly approaching, and his heart leaped high with hope. Was it possible that John Lane had not yet gone? Retracing his steps, he got over the fence at the place where John was to take him. Perhaps it was not he, after all. He had no right to suppose it was; but he determined to wait till the wagon had passed.
The rumbling noise grew more distinct. It was a heavy wagon, heavily loaded, and approached very slowly; but at last it reached the spot where the impatient boy was waiting.
"Whoa!" said the driver; and the horses stopped.
Harry's heart bounded with joy. Some lucky accident had detained the team, and he had regained his opportunity.
"Harry West!" said he on the wagon.
"John Lane!" replied Harry, as he leaped over the fence.
"You are on hand," added John Lane.