To where the pole-star beams and burns:
Star of my life! howe’er I flee,
So Fate has linked my love to thee!
Margaret seemed to become suddenly sensible that this at least was a clandestine correspondence; for blushing again more deeply than before, she rose and left the room, with the paper still in her hand. She did not return that evening, and our hero began to fear that his half playful, half in earnest declaration had offended her. They met at breakfast, however, and save a slight additional shade of reserve, her manner was the same as usual.
Vivian knew not what to think. He pined to be relieved, but he would not, without further encouragement, hazard another and more formal declaration.
Awaking from his reverie, he found himself alone in the breakfast-room, turning, unconsciously, the key of Margaret’s work-box. Suddenly a little secret door sprung open at his accidental touch, and there, on a tiny shelf, lay a paper with “Vivian,” written on the outside, in a delicate female hand! Bewildered with love and hope, he opened it ere he thought of the dishonor of so doing, and found—(yes! it was no dream and he was the happiest of the happy!)—the very bits of paper, which he had laid before her the night previous, and which she had thrown so carelessly into a book! Forgetting, in his passionate delight, the impropriety, the indelicacy of allowing her to know that her secret was betrayed, he hurriedly penciled on a card—
“Dearest Margaret; by a blessed accident, I have discovered the secret shelf—its contents are a token to me that you have rightly construed my earnest devotion of word and manner. Dare I imagine it also a token that you approve that devotion? Tell me, sweet Margaret, say but one word, but let that word be ‘yes,’ and I am yours only and forever,
Vivian.”
He placed it on the shelf, hastily closed the little door, and left the house; after meeting Mr. Walton on the stairs, and promising to call the next day.
——