"Yes, daughter; have you never thought of it?"
"Never, mother."
There was a long pause,—Mary standing, just as she had been interrupted, in her night toilette, with her long, light hair streaming down over her white dress, and the comb held mechanically in her hand. She sat down after a moment, and, clasping her hands over her knees, fixed her eyes intently on the floor; and there fell between the two a silence so profound, that the tickings of the clock in the next room seemed to knock upon the door. Mrs. Scudder sat with anxious eyes watching that silent face, pale as sculptured marble.
"Well, Mary," she said at last.
A deep sigh was the only answer. The violent throbbings of her heart could be seen undulating the long hair as the moaning sea tosses the rockweed.
"My daughter," again said Mrs. Scudder.
Mary gave a great sigh, like that of a sleeper awakening from a dream, and, looking at her mother, said,—
"Do you suppose he really loves me, mother?"
"Indeed he does, Mary, as much as man ever loved woman!"
"Does he indeed?" said Mary, relapsing into thoughtfulness.