Two or three weeks after the scene we have described, there was a small evening party at the manse. It was given in honour of Mr. and Mrs. Green, who had just been a few days married. The young couple were ushered into the drawing-room in gay attire, and with their faces wreathed into still gayer smiles; and, in the fair bride, Jones, who was, of course, present, recognized the lady who had, on one occasion, betrayed so much alarm on his doing her a trifling act of kindness. The affair, in the absence of more important topic of conversation, was talked and laughed over; and the bride acknowledged herself to have been a very silly girl. All the company were soon in high spirits, and the merriment was kept up till it was near midnight. On separating, the company could not help expressing their admiration of the serenity of the night. It was a clear, lovely moonlight; and the exquisite stillness and beauty of the scene caused some of the younger individuals of the party to regret that they had spent so much time within doors. When they reached the gate, Miss Manners, who had accompanied them through the garden, bade them “good night.” “Good night,” said they, and parted; but Jones, who was the last to shake hands with her, could not part. He lingered, pressed her hand, wished her “good night,” and still lingered.
“I must escort you a little way back,” he at length said; and, accordingly, the two strolled up the garden, hand in hand—she speaking of the lateness of the hour, and he of the loveliness of the moon and stars, until night, moon, and stars, were all forgotten.
After a few moments’ silence, Jones suddenly paused, and, pressing her hand in both of his, said—
“Marion, I would we might never part. I never leave you without pain.”
“I know not why it should be so,” she said; “but you must just come back the oftener.”
“Ay,” said he; “but even to be absent from you a little while, is torture.”
“I fear,” she said, “you are but a poor philosopher.”
“Ah,” he replied, “philosophy can do many things, but it cannot cure the heartache. O Marion! I love to call you by that name! It is in your power to end all my anxieties: a word—a word will do it! How say you? May I hope? Nay, I do hope; but, may I call you by that name?”
“What name?” interrupted Miss Manners, tremulously.
“That name, dear heart, which is the tenderest man can bestow on woman?”