THE MOONLIGHT FLITTING;
OR, THE MISTAKE.
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BY ELIZA VAN HORN ELLIS.
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CHAPTER I.
The moon shone serenely clear over hill and dale, her silver rays playing on the dull gray earth with sportive fancy, while not a zephyr seemed upon the wing, and all nature slumbered in the stillness of a warm summer evening, when, from one of the neat white cottages of the village of ——, issued two figures, completely enveloped in cloaks, notwithstanding the thermometer stood at nearly ninety. Not a word was spoken, but with stealthy steps they chased their shadows along the silent streets for a good half mile; although twice or thrice one of the figures paused and heaved convulsively, whether from lack of breath or agitation seemed doubtful. At length they stopped before a cottage, whose proximity to the church bespoke the parsonage; a light twinkled through the casement; the muffled fugitives rapt gently at the door; it was opened, and they entered.
The old moss-grown church clock had just proclaimed, in solemn tones, the hour of nine, on the next morning, when two ladies, whose looks bespoke them far upon the road of time—clad in black silk bonnets and mitts—came slowly down the streets, shaded by the spreading elms. These good gossips appeared deeply engaged in conversation, looking so intently into each other’s face, that sundry fowls, young pigs, and small dogs miraculously escaped a sudden and violent death.
“Can you believe it yet, Mrs. Potts?” cried the lesser of the two ladies; “such a reflection upon our quiet village—good gracious and powers! preserve us from such assurance.” Thus saying, she rolled up the balls of her eyes, and clasped her hands together with pious fervor.
“Not only that, my dear Miss Clapper, but such an example to the daughters of the place!” and Mrs. Potts sighed, as she thought of her six damsels, who still remained in single blessedness, notwithstanding the many little innocent manœuvres to which mammas will sometimes have recourse.