Although many, many years had elapsed, and foreign climes had embrowned his features, Elizabeth recognized him. She had loved the boy, and when he was absent her imagination had pictured the man, and there stood the living resemblance, unchanged. On hearing his own name pronounced, he rushed forward. There was a beautiful lady in mourning. Could it be his own Elizabeth? There was the same slight figure, which he had so often clasped, as a boyish dream, and the deep light of her soft blue eyes, which he had so often braved for hours, when lying on the grass, and could he forget it?
“My own Elizabeth!” he exclaimed, “in mourning? But hast thou been faithful and true, as I have been? There, there, that boy again.—A shudder passed over me, as I first beheld him here. Art thou the wife of another? That boy,”—
“Arthur, I know him not, he is the child of a neighbour. Oh! hast thou come at last! Arthur, I am alone. My brother is—”
“Hush, dearest, now thou art not alone. But let us enter the house, where I have been so happy, and tell me all.”
Their love had been preserved through many years. It had commenced early, and was hallowed by memory, as well as brightened by hope. Innocence had lighted it, and the daring boy, and the gentle girl, would leave their task to romp with each other, but not for romping’s sake; for when the sport was ended, then came the soft look, the soft touch, and the soft confession. Boys and girls are the quickest, the warmest, the holiest, and the most successful lovers. The God of love plays best with children; and,—mischievous urchin—when the little scholars are rambling about, or seated, teaching each other their tasks, taking hold of fingers, to point out letters, or words, figures, or sums, then he lets fly the arrow, touching their young and pure blood. Such lovers had Elizabeth Woodville and Arthur Govenloch been, and their affection was preserved, warm and strong, until the present. Both wept over the death of their old companion, and all his books were, once more, affectionately handled and looked at. They walked out together upon the terrace, and brightly did the stars shine upon them, like the glorious and happy types of that future, concerning which they spoke. Happy were they now in each other, and long ere Arthur left her, Elizabeth’s face was beautiful with smiles. She accompanied him to the garden gate, leaning confidingly upon his arm.
“Elizabeth—I must introduce the custom of the country which I have left; and the square is so retired, and the nights, of late, have been so beautiful, that I must come and serenade you beneath your window. But arise not; only for a moment awake to listen to my lute, and then, dearest, dream of me.”
He looked upon her, and saw that she was pale. Her slight frame trembled. He pressed his hand against her heart, and it beat violently.
“Nay, Arthur, do not.”
“I will not disturb your rest. No, Elizabeth; but the night is so beautiful, that I cannot refrain from coming to the house where my own love dwells, and serenading, in company with the angels, the abode of the beautiful Orphan. You know that I won’t serenade you, when you are my dear little wife. Henry, your brother, will thank and bless me for coming.”