The orb of the sun had just disappeared behind the rugged and far–distant mountain range, whose towering and snow–clad peaks stood out in clear relief from the deep masses of cloud whose wavy edges still reflected his golden light. A mellowed haze wrapped as in a saffron mantle the nearer hills, whose irregular forms, some rocky and precipitous, others undulating and covered with dense forests of pine and cedar, formed the foreground of the magnificent evening landscape. A single star glimmered palely in the twilight heaven, a forerunner of the thousand glorious lights about to emerge from its unfathomed vault. To look up from nature to nature’s God was the habitual process of Prairie–bird’s mind, a habit resulting partly from the fatherly instructions of the missionary, but chiefly from her constant study of the Scripture amid scenes calculated to impress its lessons most deeply upon her.
Such a scene was that now before her; and as the deepening shadows fell upon mountain, forest, and vale, a holier calm stole over the current of her thoughts, and imparted to her eloquent features an expression in which the sweet consciousness of reciprocated earthly affection was blended with adoring gratitude to Him whose everlasting name is Love.
The earnest and affectionate gaze of Reginald was still riveted upon her countenance, when a gentle sigh fell upon his watchful ear. Taking her hand within his own, he whispered, “Is Prairie–bird sad?—Does any sorrow disturb her peace?”
Dropping to the earth those humid eyes so late upraised to heaven, she replied, in a hesitating voice, “Not sad, dear Reginald, but ... afraid.”
“Afraid! dearest; and of what? Nay, blush not, but tell me your cause of fear.”
“Afraid of too much happiness, of too much love. I tremble, and doubt whether my thoughts are such as God approves.”
“Be not rash nor unjust in self–condemnation,” said Reginald, in a chiding tone, while secretly delighted by a confession which his heart interpreted aright; “think you that the Creator who implanted these affections within us, and who has pronounced repeated sanctions and blessings upon the bond of wedded love; think you, dearest, that He can be offended at your love for one to whom you have plighted your troth, and who, albeit in many respects unworthy of such a treasure, has at least the merit of repaying it an hundredfold!”
“Unworthy!” repeated Prairie–bird, in a tone of reproachful tenderness,—other words trembled upon her lips, but the instinct of maidenly reserve checked their utterance, and she was silent.
“Nay, if you like not the word, it shall be unsaid,” whispered Reginald, gently pressing the hand which he held within his own; “and my whole future life shall be a constant endeavour to make it untrue. Let me, however, guess at the secret cause of your fear, and of the sigh that escaped you,—you were thinking of your dear fatherly instructor, and were afraid that he would not return?”
“Indeed my thoughts were not of him at the moment,” she replied, with earnest simplicity; “nor am I afraid on his account.”