Not till the two girls retired did they have an opportunity to exchange confidences. The moment they were by themselves, Tabitha demanded, “What made thee so serious to-night?”
“Oh, Tibbie,” sighed Janice, dolefully,” I’m very unhappy!”
“What over?”
“I—he—Charles—I’m afraid he—and yet—’T is something he wrote, but whether in joke or—Mr. Evatt said he insulted me at the tavern—Yet ’t is so pretty that—and mommy interrupted just—”
“What art thou talking about, Jan?” exclaimed Tibbie.
Janice even in her disjointed sentences had begun to unlace her travelling bodice,—for with a prudence almost abnormal this one frock was not cut low,—and she now produced from her bosom a paper which she unfolded, and then offered to Tibbie with a suggestion of hesitation, asking “Dost think he meant to insult me?”
Tabitha eagerly took the sheet, and read—
TO THALIA
These lines to her my passion tell,
Describe the empire of her spell;
A love which naught will e’er dispel,
That flames for sweetest Thalia.
The sun that brights the fairest morn,
The stars that gleam in Capricorn,
Do not so much the skies adorn
As does my lovely Thalia.
The tints with which the rose enchants,
The fragrance which the violet grants;
Each doth suggest, but ne’er supplants,
The charms of dainty Thalia.
To gaze on her is sweet delight:
’T is heaven whene’er she 's in my sight,
But when she’s gone, ’t is endless night—
All ’s dark without my Thalia.
I vow to her, by God above,
By hope of life, by depth of love,
That from her side I ne’er will rove,
So much love I my Thalia.
“How monstrous pretty!” cried Tabitha. “I’m sure he meant it rightly.”