“Mercy on us!” exclaimed Mr. Pluribusi, with pretended surprise; “how can you be so unamiable—you know that you have been attacked with that particular malady called love, which you have so often wished me to explain that—”
Here Mary ran to her piano and played an extempore prelude of crashing chords, which completely drowned his voice, though it did not silence him. She then sang, with a sweet voice, the saucy air of “cease your funning.” Mr. Bryarly, who had entered during this colloquy without being observed, now approached, and taking Mary’s hand, said, seriously,
“Let us have done with this ‘funning.’ Mary, I wish you to marry; and Harry Thatcher I have deemed to be the hero of your destiny, graced as he is with every quality to win and wear a maiden’s heart.”
The soft blush that had hitherto colored the cheek of our heroine was pale to the crimson that now dyed its surface.
“Father,” said she, “you are rather precipitate. Pray allow Mr. Thatcher to choose for himself.”
“I am certain he loves you, Mary,” said her father.
“He never told me so.” She spoke the truth literally in her reply; he had never told her so in words; but there is a language which speaks—the language of feeling, of intuition, and the force of such communication had made its impression upon her—and she carried with her a conviction of the conquest she had made of his heart.
“But he has told me so,” said Mr. Pluribusi; “and when industry and economy win fortune, you will be the object of his choice, as you now are of his love.”
“Why, uncle, do you, too, advocate marriage?” exclaimed she, feigning surprise. “I thought you wished me to resemble you in every thing.”
“In every thing but remaining unmarried, Mary,” returned he.