“You ridicule romantic school girls, Mr. Stanley; and as I presume you think I look very much like one at this moment, I must tell you how I happened to be here. Father told me to-day that the course of the M—— railroad has been altered, and it will pass directly along this bank, so that our beautiful grove will be spoiled.”
Great was our indignation at the idea of this invasion, and when we had exhausted almost every expression in the language, Fred declared he would get up a remonstrance and defeat their sacrilegious purposes.
“It will be of no use,” said Hattie. “It is the march of improvement, and we must submit.”
“Worse than the march of the Goths and Vandals,” exclaimed Fred, wrathfully; “the idea of sacrificing these grand old trees to the whims of a few railroad contractors—it is too bad, for the other route will be more convenient for everybody else.”
“I felt sorry enough, as you may imagine,” replied Hattie. “I have spent so many happy hours here that I determined to sketch the view from this point before the measuring-rod or the steam-engine should disturb its quiet beauty.”
“And your pencil has immortalized it; how perfectly you have copied the flickering light that falls on the smooth, dark waters, through those overhanging trees. Really, Miss Atherton, I shall be exceedingly obliged to you for a copy of this picture.”
“You shall have one,” said Hattie, frankly. “I intended making a picture from this, and giving the drawing to Mary, for I know she loves this scene as much as I do. I have so many pleasant associations connected with it, that I feel as if I were to part with an old friend.”
“I can realize your feelings,” replied Fred, “for I, too, have loved to listen on this spot to the many voices of nature. How often have I sat beneath these trees to watch the daylight fade from the hills, and the twilight throw its shadows over the landscape, seeming to descend lower and lower till they rested on the bosom of the river, and I could see nothing but the white foam gleaming through the dark, where it falls over the rocks away yonder. Then the low, thrilling, whispering of the wind among the pines, and the melancholy scream of the night-hawk—I declare they have made me quite poetical, as you see,” he added, smiling, and slightly embarrassed at having been thus betrayed out of his usual composure, which embarrassment was not at all relieved by meeting Hattie’s large dark eyes fixed on him with an expression of wonder and gratification. Perhaps it was this mauvais honte—perhaps it was the argumentative spirit which had occasioned us to give him in the family the soubriquet of “the opposing member”—that gave so singular a turn to this sentimental conversation, when at this moment, in turning over the leaves of her book, Fred found a slip of paper covered with verses of Harriet’s composition.
“So you write poetry, too!” said he, looking up at her with a smile.
“Oh, give it to me—I wouldn’t have you read it for the world,” exclaimed she, springing forward with such evident distress that he reluctantly relinquished the manuscript.