"And you love him, do you not?" said her mother.
"Oh, yes, I love him."
"You love him better than any man in the world, don't you?"
"Oh, mother, mother! yes!" said Mary, throwing herself passionately forward, and bursting into sobs; "yes, there is no one else now that I love better,—no one!—no one!"
"My darling! my daughter!" said Mrs. Scudder, coming and taking her in her arms.
"Oh, mother, mother!" she said, sobbing distressfully, "let me cry, just for a little,—oh, mother, mother, mother!"
What was there hidden under that despairing wail?—It was the parting of the last strand of the cord of youthful hope.
Mrs. Scudder soothed and caressed her daughter, but maintained still in her breast a tender pertinacity of purpose, such as mothers will, who think they are conducting a child through some natural sorrow into a happier state.
Mary was not one, either, to yield long to emotion of any kind. Her rigid education had taught her to look upon all such outbursts as a species of weakness, and she struggled for composure, and soon seemed entirety calm.
"If he really loves me, mother, it would give him great pain, if I refused," said Mary, thoughtfully.