But ties around this heart were spun,
That would not, could not, be undone.
Campbell.
One day Mary said to her father, “My head does really ache so badly.”
“Go into the garden—a walk and the fresh air will revive you,” replied he.
She followed his advice, and rambled about for a long time, but neither her flowers nor the beauties of nature could fix her attention—her thoughts ran on an absent one; she had suffered herself to be persuaded that Harry would surely come, immediately after receiving her letter—and she had been looking for him for some hours. If the wind moved the branches—she started, or a bird flew rustling through the leaves, as if their accustomed sounds were the harbingers of coming footsteps. She was unwilling to acknowledge, even to herself, the disappointment that weighed upon her spirits; but not finding in her walk the exhilarating influence she anticipated, she was turning her steps homeward, when a sudden crashing among the boughs interrupted her progress, and the object of her thoughts bounded into the path, his face glowing with the rapidity of his motions; her eyes flashed with their wonted joy, and forgetting every thing but the delight she felt in meeting him, with a sudden impulse she rushed forward and threw herself into his out-stretched arms.
“I feared that I might be forgotten,” exclaimed he, tenderly; “but I see I have wronged you.”
“I could never forget you, Harry,” was the whispered reply.
“But why did you write that terrible letter, Mary? Anguish pierced my heart when I read its contents. Oh! if you had ever felt the torture of jealousy, you would have spared me that.”
A thrill of delight penetrated Mary’s heart; now she was convinced that she was beloved as well as ever.