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BY PERCIE H. SELTON.
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“Mary!” said the low voice of Henry Ashton. The maiden looked up.
“Mary! I have much to tell you—will you listen to me awhile, only for a moment!” and he spoke fast and eagerly.
“A moment only, you say—well, I suppose I must,—but what a beautiful butterfly is that. Oh! the dear, sweet, tiny thing; do, pray, try and catch it for me.”
Ashton was stung to the heart. He had been on the point of declaring his long-cherished passion for Mary Derwentwater, and he felt that she knew, not only the depth of his affection, but that the words trembling on his lips were an avowal of his love. Her light-heartedness at once changed the whole current of his feelings. Often had he heard others say that his beautiful cousin was a coquette, and more than once had she trifled with his own feelings. He had hoped that her conduct was the result only of a momentary whim, but this last act displayed a confirmed heartlessness of which an hour before he would not have deemed her capable. He sighed, and was silent.
“Oh! dear, how ungallant you are,” continued his cousin, “the beautiful creature will really escape, and I do so love butterflies.”
“It is gone.”
“So it is. I shall never forgive you. Don’t ask me to,” said Mary affectedly.