It was natural that the same impulse which drew Lotte to Mark’s breast should dictate to him to hold back, for an instant, that pretty head, and to press his lips upon her forehead.
It was Lotte’s first love-kiss.
She broke from him, startled, affrighted; ran, like a terrified fawn, to a chair, upon which she sank sobbing.
Mark followed her, and bent over her.
“Lotte,” he whispered, gently, in her ear, “do not weep, my own sweet little girl; I cannot bear to see you in tears. I love you, as I have confessed to you, fondly and dearly, and I would make you my own little wife, if you will have me.”
Lotte still wept, but it was with an intensity of happiness to which previously she had been an entire stranger.
Oh, those day dreams! those visions of Paradise, in which she had indulged to wake out of only with a sigh.
Were they, after all, to be realized, and should she really and truly have for her very own that handsome, manly fellow, now pleading his suit in her ear?
The vision was one of happiness to her indeed.
But she woke up from it. Her common sense presented itself coldly and gravely before her; it held up a mirror to her, in which she saw at a glance their respective social positions, and she saw that what she had just heard with such trembling delight was, after all, a dream, only to be added to others which had been dissipated.