Mr. R.—"Come, Lucy,"—taking her hand,—"you wished to die with me, a moment ago. Don't you think you can make one more effort to live with me? I won't take advantage of words spoken in mortal peril, but I suppose you were in earnest when you called me your own—own—" Her head droops; he folds her in his arms, a moment, then she starts away from him, as if something had suddenly occurred to her.
Miss G.—"Allen, where are you going?"
Mr. R.—"Going? Upon my soul, I haven't the least idea."
Miss G.—"Where were you going?"
Mr. R.—"O, I was going to Albany."
Miss G.—"Well, don't! Aunt Mary is expecting me here at Schenectady,—I telegraphed her,—and I want you to stop here, too, and we'll refer the whole matter to her. She's such a wise old head. I'm not sure"—
Mr. R.—"What?"
Miss G., demurely.—"That I'm good enough for you."
Mr. R., starting, in burlesque of her movement, as if a thought had struck him.—"Lucy! how came you on this train when you left Syracuse on the morning express?"
Miss G., faintly.—"I waited over a train at Utica." She sinks into a chair and averts her face.