“May, May!” cried her lover, turning away from her, “if you loved me you would not say this!”
“Ah—not if it gains papa’s consent to our union!”
“That indeed—but, dearest May, to become a laughing-stock—to have the finger of derision pointed at one—to feel the lash of the critic, and—”
“To call little May your own!” added the coaxing gipsy.
Who could resist such an appeal from such a pair of rosy lips? or unrelenting behold the mute eloquence of those beautiful eyes! Not Harry; no, nor any other young lover I am sure.
From that evening, dear reader, only imagine my unlucky hero imprisoned hour after hour with the learned author, declaiming that—“infernal poem,” (I quote Harry’s own words.) Do you not pity him?
But then—the stolen half hour below, assisting little May in her lessons—do you not envy him!
In the meantime Mr. Lillie had not been idle. He had forwarded letters to some of the most influential men of the neighboring towns, inviting them to attend the next Lyceum, where as he informed them, a young author, a poet, was to make his début before their intelligent community. In confidence he assured them they would be astonished at the depth and power of his genius. He had himself looked over the poem, and although he would not wish to forestall their admiration, thus much he would say, that he had never read such a production!
The eventful evening arrived, and from every turnpike and cross-road people came flocking in to listen to the young author—some because of the favor of Mr. Lillie, others to compliment their favorite—the school-master.