Matters lay in this state until the third day before the expiration of the appointed time, when Margaret, having received from Art secret intelligence of his return, hastened to a spot agreed upon between them, that they might consult each other upon what ought to be done under circumstances so critical.
After the usual preface to such tender discussions, Art listened with a good deal of anxiety, but without the slightest doubt of her firmness and attachment, to an account of the promise she had given her father.
“Well, but, Margaret darlin',” said he, “what will happen if they refuse?”
“Surely, you know it is too late for them to refuse now; arn't we as good as married—didn't we pass the Hand Promise—isn't our troth plighted?”
“I know that, but suppose they should still refuse, then what's to be done? what are you and I to do?”
“I must lave that to you, Art,” she replied archly.
“And it couldn't be in better hands, Margaret; if they refuse their consent, there's nothing for it but a regular runaway, and that will settle it.”
“You must think I'm very fond of you,” she added playfully, “and I suppose you do, too.”
“Margaret,” said Art, and his face became instantly overshadowed with seriousness and care, “the day may come when I'll feel how necessary you will be to guide and support me.”
She looked quickly into his eyes, and saw that his mind appeared disturbed and gloomy.