“My dear Art,” she asked, “what is the meaning of your words, and why is there such sadness in your face?”
“There ought not to be sadness in it,” he said, “when I'm sure of you—you will be my guardian angel may be yet.”
“Art, have you any particular meanin' in what you say?”
“I'll tell you all,” said he, “when we are married.”
Margaret was generous-minded, and, as the reader may yet acknowledge, heroic; there was all the boldness and bravery of innocence about her, and she could scarcely help attributing Art's last words to some fact connected with his feelings, or, perhaps, to circumstances which his generosity prevented him from disclosing. A thought struck her—
“Art,” said she, “the sooner this is settled the better; as it is, if you'll be guided by me, we won't let the sun set upon it; walk up with me to my father's house, come in, and in the name of God, we'll leave nothing unknown to him. He is a hard man, but he has a heart, and he is better a thousand times than he is reported. I know it.”
“Come,” said Art, “let us go; he may be richer, but there's the blood, and the honesty, and good name of the Maguires against his wealth—”
A gentle pressure on his arm, when he mentioned the word wealth, and he was silent.
“My darlin' Margaret,” said he, “oh how unworthy I am of you!”
“Now,” said she, “lave me to manage this business my own way. Your good sense will tell you when to spake; but whatever my father says, trate him with respect—lave the rest to me.”