“You are jesting, Town.,” she said, a little reproachfully. “You do not know the desire of your own heart. When you have thought more of the matter, and consulted your own feelings and mind, you may have reason to feel a pang of regret that you ever asked the wild, wayward daughter of a poor Indian trader to be your wife.”
“Madge, do not doubt my affection and judgment in this matter. My heart is immovable, and I love you all the more of your humble life. It would not be a marriage of a prince and peasant, but two whose love I trust would be equal, as well as their birth.”
“Town.,” said Madge, and there was a slight tremor in her voice, “are you sure that Clara Bryant has no claim upon your heart? I know Clara loves you, Town., and would make you a better wife than I.”
“Until I saw you, Madge, I thought I did love Clara, but since our first meeting I find it was but pure friendship compared with the love I hold for you.”
“Then your love for me is of but a momentary growth. Dismiss me from your mind and you will find that the heart will go back to its first love.”
“You do not love me, Madge, else you would not trifle with my feelings thus,” he said, a little vexed.
“No, no, Town.; I will frankly admit that I love you, but can not promise you now to be your wife.”
Town. Farnesworth felt a thrill of joy pass through his heart, and his arm stole softly about the slender waist of the maiden. She gently withdrew from his embrace and continued:
“Do not let my avowal of love for you, Town., build up new hopes within your breast. I must admit the sin of being ambitious, and I could never give my consent to wed a man whose name was coupled with that of—”
“Cowardice!” exclaimed Town.