Her cloak was
not very cumbrous, and her tumultuous heart was but a little way from
his.
"You know that I never could help loving you," he whispered, as she
seemed to wonder what the meaning was. "May I ever hope that you will
like me?"
"Me! How can it matter now to anybody? I used to think it did; but I
was very foolish then. I know my own value. It is less than this. This
little flower has been a good creature. It has been true to its place,
and hurt nobody."
Instead of seeking for any more flowers, she was taking from her breast
the one she had--the snow-drop, and threatening to tear it in pieces.
"If you give it to me, I shall have some hope." As he spoke, he looked
at her steadfastly, without any shyness or fear in his eyes, but as one
who knows his own good heart, and has a right to be answered clearly.
The maiden in one glance understood all the tales of his wonderful
daring, which she never used to believe, because he seemed afraid to
look at her.
"You may have it, if you like," she said; "but, Blyth, I shall never
deserve you. I have behaved to you shamefully. And I feel as if I could
never bear to be forgiven for it."
For the sake of peace and happiness, it must be hoped that she conquered
this feminine feeling, which springs from an equity of nature--the
desire that none should do to us more than we ever could do to them.
Certain it is that when the Rector held his dinner party, two gallant
bosoms throbbed beneath the emblem of purity and content.
Pages:
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722