“I love her, my mother,” he murmured, sadly smiling—“I love her, but the love I once thought mine, is not for me.”
“You love her—you love Muriel, and she does not love you! I do not believe it—I cannot. John, at my age women are not easily deceived—they do not mistake the tokens of love. Take care that you are sure of what you say”—
“I am sure, mother, I am sure,” he interrupted, in a low voice. “Her accepted lover told me of his happiness to-day. Do not ask me his name. They themselves will tell you. Hush!”
The hall-door was heard closing, and the voices talking gaily in the hall. She looked at him wonderingly for an instant, then quickly pressed her lips to his drooping forehead, and glided from his arms to the back-door of the parlor, out of which she passed up to her chamber, as the others came in.
Witherlee had departed as the escort of Miss Julia, his natural impudence perfectly ignoring the rebuff he had received from her mother.
“Where’s Mrs. Eastman?” said Emily.
“She went out as you came in,” replied Harrington.
“John,” said Muriel, coming up to him, and playfully shaking her finger. “You quite discomfited poor Uncle Lemuel, and he went off as cross as a bear.”
“What a memory Harrington has!” laughed Wentworth. “To think that he gave him Burke and Webster plump! That was a double-barrelled shot, by Jupiter!”
“Oh, it was capital,” chimed in Emily.