“Well, now, Abel,” answered Marguerite, “you whom—whom I—I—” Here her tongue faltered.
But as mother earth cannot restrain the crystal waters murmuring within her bosom, so it was impossible for the girl to hold back the words which were bubbling up from the pure fountain of her heart; and presently, with a blushing rose on each cheek, she spoke out and said: “You whom I love, let me ask you to kneel with me and offer thanks to Almighty God that I am able to drive away your melancholy. Yes, let us say a prayer of thanksgiving.”
Abel did as she wished, and they knelt and prayed together.
Then, when they had risen from their knees, “And now,” added Marguerite, “I hope you will set courageously to work at this Patent Log, and while you are thus engaged I’ll play the nightingale and sing my very best; will you?”
Abel’s eyes were swimming with tears, and, taking her hand in his, “You love me?” he said in tremulous accents. “Oh! how kind, how good it is in you to love me. I have been alone since my boyhood—all alone. Nobody since the far-off day when I parted from my mother ever spoke to me as you do. The world appeared like a desert to me. I cared very little for life. All was a barren waste on every side of me until this hour. But now I would not die for anything. I wish to live because you live; and, O Marguerite! my heart would stop beating if you were to leave me.”
“But I never will leave you.”
“No, don’t. Let us live together, Marguerite, always together; be my wife.”
“Well, now,” answered Marguerite, her heart overflowing, yet at the same time speaking with firmness and decision, “you must set immediately to work; a quarter of an hour will be enough for to-day. To-morrow you may labor half an hour, and perhaps next day an hour, until this invention is completed; and, remember, all the while you are inventing I’ll play the lark, the canary, or whatever you choose to call me.”
Abel listened to her words, and, albeit weak and hardly in a state to use his brain, he actually made a little progress with his invention during the brief space she allowed him to work. What unspeakable joy it gave Marguerite to think that she might be able to restore him to full mental health! “And when he does become entirely himself—oh! then—then—” Here her song waxed louder and more melodious; for her heart was thrilling with a rapture which only the voice of music can express.
Yes, Marguerite, ’twas verily an inspiration that caused you to direct Abel’s mind anew to the Patent Log; for this is a sane and wholesome object whereupon to exert his faculties, and not a madman’s dream like the Magic Hen’s Nest.