Hiram came suddenly on her. Both stopped, of course.
Mr. Burns that day wondered—wondered exceedingly that the tried and reliable Meeker should fail him on a very important occasion. Something made it necessary that Hiram should visit Slab City, and return in the course of the morning. But the morning passed, and no Hiram. Mr. Burns drove to the mill: his clerk had not appeared there.
At dinner time the mystery was solved. Hiram, it seems, had been unable to resist all the conspiring influences. When they met, the two had wandered away toward a pleasant grove, and, seated at the foot of a giant oak, he told Sarah Burns in most seductive terms how he loved her, how he had always loved her since they met at Mrs. Croft's.
Sarah did as young girls always do: she burst into tears.
This was not at all to Hiram's taste.
(Don't be severe with him, reader: he could not appreciate the causes which produce such emotions.)
He waited for what he was cool enough to consider hysterical demonstrations to pass, and commenced again to press his suit.
'My father, my father!' exclaimed Sarah; 'I can never give him up.'
'We must leave father and mother, and cleave to each other,' said Hiram solemnly, with anything rather than the tone of a lover. It sounded harsh and repulsive to Sarah, and she began to cry, again, but not as passionately as before.