At these words Mr. Fletcher buried his face in his hands and sighed, while the other, who remembered the tears which had once moistened his eyes as he sat looking at Harry and Mabel from this same spot, felt more than ever convinced that her child had two lovers, and wished that she had two Mabels, in order to be able to give one to each.
Yes, Harry and Mabel were already deeply in love, and Mabel, for whom it was quite a new experience, trembled every time the youth met her—and he met her very often between sunrise and sunset: at the churn, feeding the poultry, gathering chestnuts—“For now I am sure he is going to propose,” she would say to herself.
At length a morning came when Harry resolved to put the all-important question. Why dally any longer? He had made up his mind to become a farmer; Mabel would be just the wife for him; she was not only handsome but healthy—no headaches, no dyspepsia. If her hands were not so soft as Miss Gibbon’s, what of it? They were industrious, willing hands, and able to do almost everything except thrum on a piano.
Accordingly, Harry went in quest of Mabel, who, one of the children told him, had gone to pay a visit to their neighbor. Whereupon he took the lane which led to the adjoining farm, and had proceeded about half way when he saw the girl coming towards him. She did not walk with her usual elastic step; her eyes were cast upon the ground, nor did she raise them until he was quite close, and then Harry perceived that she was very pale, and seemed to be startled, as if she had not heard him approaching.
“Dear Mabel, what is the matter?” said Harry, taking her hand as he spoke. “I never saw you look troubled before. Are you ill?”
In a voice wonderfully firm, considering the poignant anguish she was suffering, and forcing to her lips the ghost of a smile, Mabel answered:
“Ill? No, indeed, sir! And I should not have been moving at such a snail’s pace; I should have been running, flying, for I bring you great news—news that will ravish your heart with delight.”
“Really! Well, pray, what is it?” said Harry, who felt the hand which he clasped growing colder.
“Miss Gibbon has arrived,” continued Mabel. “She is at our neighbor’s; she mistook the road, and went there instead of coming to our house; and I told her to wait where she was until I found you and broke the glad tidings So, Mr. Fletcher, make haste, do, for Miss Gibbon is longing to meet you.”
Here Mabel, who could not trust herself to utter another syllable, tore away from him, leaving Harry perfectly dazed and bewildered.