She rose from her chair, as she thus spoke, arranged her dress, and descended to the parlor, with a countenance from which, except to a suspicious eye, every trace of grief had vanished.
“You must not leave us so long again, my daughter,” said her venerable father, as she entered the room. “My home appears almost cheerless, unless I hear your voice. Sing to us one of your sweet songs.”
“What shall I sing, dear father? Shall it be your favorite, Grace Darling?”
“Not Grace Darling to-night, my love, it is mournful and tells of shipwreck and death.”
“Well, I will sing my own favorite,” said Mary, seating herself at the piano, “it shall be
‘My heart’s in the Highlands,
My heart is not here.’ ”
The parents looked at each other and smiled, as their beautiful daughter struck the keys; for they felt that few beings were as lovely as their own Mary.
“Dear papa!” said she at length, suddenly stopping, and turning around, “I want to ask a favor of you,—I am sure mamma will grant it. Let me go to New York next week. There now, I knew you would,—you are always such a kind and indulgent papa,” and throwing her arms around his neck, she kissed him tenderly.
“Well, if mamma gives her consent, I suppose I must give mine. But, dear Mary, don’t come home this time so down-hearted as you did from the last visit you paid your sister. There now, since you have got your boon, play me another song.”