“What a beautiful color your friend has, Mary,” whispered Miss Medford; “and, I declare, you are blushing, too.”
Poor Mary’s color deepened; she stood with a trembling heart, and downcast eye, fancying every one was looking at her—every one guessing her treasured secret, with scarcely the power to answer the remarks of her companions.
Their mutual emotion supplied the gossips of Albany with material for a week’s talk.
It was a relief to both when Mr. Pluribusi proposed a walk around the room. Harry remained with our party until late at night, and repeatedly testified his happiness in the enjoyment of Mary’s society by all those little ingratiating attentions which appeal so silently but effectually to the human heart.
I will not linger over the happy hours the lovers spent together. They flew away rapidly, each winged with bliss—for happiness lends wings to time. Harry accompanied Mr. Pluribusi and Mary home. Every evening he intended to depart, and every morning he changed his intention.
The limits we have allotted to this narrative will not admit of a minute detail of circumstances; let it suffice to know that the attachment which existed between the lovers had grown and strengthened, and now twined, like the tendrils of a vine, around the tree which supports it, closer and closer around them, until they felt that parting would be like severing the very chords of existence.
One evening they sat at a window; the silvery beams of the pale moon, which fell on objects around, lent their softening influence to the feelings of the lovers. They both became silent from some overpowering emotion—for at such a moment mirth seemed sacrilege. The hour was growing late, and its quiet was unbroken, save by the distant rumbling of carriage-wheels. We do not know how it happened, except her conscious heart lent a deep flush to her cheek, and a softer light to her dark eye, but Mary never looked so lovely. Harry gazed upon her until he could no longer contain the emotions of his soul; the time, the place, favored his wishes—and words which, when heart responds to heart are never breathed in vain, were now uttered—that hour witnessed their betrothal.
——
CHAPTER VII.
What plea so tainted and corrupt,