"LOVE!--what a volume in a word, an ocean in a tear!" TUPPER.
_Wednesday, June 10th, 1840._
DEAREST MOTHER,--It is a week since sister Nelly sailed for home. I am
so lost without her, that I have determined to resume my journal which
has been interrupted for nearly two years.
I can never sufficiently thank you for sparing her to me so long. I sent
many messages by her which I could not find time to write. If you are as
much interested in my friends as she was, she will give you the latest
intelligence from them. She would not be contented until she had
received an introduction in person. Many of them exceedingly regret her
departure.
The family of Mrs. Reynolds, she liked much, though she could not see
Anna, as she was adopted by her uncle Edward soon after his marriage,
and lives in New York. My suspicions were very soon confirmed with
regard to him, by an invitation to a wedding at his sister's, where I
was introduced to a Miss Grant, who in a few moments became Mrs. Edward
Ryland.
Miss Grant had waited patiently for her lover all these years; with a
woman's true heart refusing to listen for a moment to other proposals of
marriage. Even her own parents were not aware of the state of her
affections, and had often urged her to give a reason for not wishing to
settle in life. All the reason the poor girl could give, was that she
did not love the suitor. But her faithfulness is now rewarded, and Mr.
Ryland hastened with his bride to New York to become a partner in the
firm for which he went to India.
Mrs. Reynolds was very unwilling to part with Anna, more especially on
account of her husband's health, who would, she feared, miss the lovely
child. At that time William was very feeble, and it was feared that his
exposures in his wanderings from home in former years might bring on
consumption. But for a year past he has enjoyed perfect health. I
suppose, Nelly will tell you that a little miss has come to take Anna's
place, and that she is called Cora Lenox Reynolds. I never liked the
name better than when I have seen the little creature come shyly up to
me, turning her head one side and the other, and looking out from under
her curls to take something I had carried; and heard her lisp out her
name, "Cowa Lenox." The Doctor makes a great pet of her, and is so much
delighted with her name that it would be no wonder to me, if by and by
there should be quite a regiment of Cora Lenoxes among his patients. In
that case I should find it cheaper to import a quantity of silver cups
than to purchase them here.
I have no doubt much as Nelly desired to see the dear home friends, that
long ere this she has wished herself back for one more frolic with her
little namesake. When I say to the darling, "Baby want to see Aunt
Nelly?" she crows and screams with delight. We all think her very like
sister; the same deep blue eyes, and fair complexion, so different from
her beautiful brother who looked far more like a Lenox. I sometimes
smile as strangers notice the striking resemblance of Pauline to her
father. I used to fancy the same thing myself when she was a baby.
I long for the return of our dear friends Allen and Lucy, who took
sister in charge as far as New York, and saw her safely on board ship.
They enclosed me a short note from her, with her last farewell just
before she sailed. Emily says, "it seems as if half Crawford were gone."
We are all lonely without the lively girl.
Miss Nelly calls and I must obey. Frank says, I am not half as strict
with her as I was with Pauline or Walter; and it may be true; I feel so
uncertain of her life, since our sweet boy was taken away so suddenly.
_Thursday, June 18th._
Allen and Lucy returned yesterday, and we all went in to spend the
evening with them. Miss Emily Mansfield was allowed to sit up to welcome
her mamma, and could not be persuaded to leave her for a moment. Sister
is very proud of her little namesake.
We had been talking of sister Nelly and other topics in a lively manner,
when Lucy suddenly started, saying, "Bye the bye, Emily, who do you
think we saw on our way to Philadelphia?" and without waiting for a
reply, "Mr. Benson, who used to be settled in Waverley. I thought at one
time that he was a flame of yours; but he is married now; and to one of
the most beautiful creatures I ever saw. She was leaning on his arm and
looking up in his face with the most wife-like fondness."
Lucy talked so rapidly, and was so rejoiced to be the first to tell the
news, that she did not appear to notice the effect it had on her
hearers. If I had done _anything_, I should have burst out crying. I had
woven so many pretty romances about his coming home faithful to sister,
and all that, and finding out she did love him.
As no one spoke, Frank said with the utmost calmness, "he married Miss
Karswell, I suppose, sister of the young man with whom he has been
travelling."
"No, not sister," replied Lucy, "but a cousin, who accompanied his
sisters. Our informant who knew the family well, told me that Charles
was not altogether pleased, as he wished to marry his cousin himself.
She is a Southerner; and they were on their way to the south. He is so
much altered that I should hardly have known him, if it were not for his
mouth and voice. I stood near them in the boat, and heard him say, he
wished her parents were to meet them in Philadelphia instead of
Charleston, for it would be extremely warm there at this season. She
replied, 'it shall be my endeavor to make it so delightful to you, that
you will forget the heat.'"
"Didn't you speak to them?" I asked, recovering my voice.
"Yes, but it was just as we were leaving. He seemed really annoyed that
I had not made myself known at once. I told him I was not sure for some
time whether it were really he."
"'Am I then so much altered?' said he sadly; but at the same time a
beautiful smile played for one instant around his mouth, and vanished."
"Then you were not introduced to his lady?"
"No, though she kept tight hold of his arm, and seemed almost impatient
that he stopped even that short space. Altogether he was the most
distinguished gentleman on board the boat, always excepting my own
husband," she added, with a merry glance at him.
When the conversation turned to another theme, I ventured to look at
Emily. To my astonishment, she appeared to be wholly engrossed in a new
book, she had taken from the table; but on looking a moment I perceived
a deadly pallor about her mouth; and suddenly remembered that we were
making a very long call upon persons just returned.
When we were at home, I merely ran to take a peep into the nursery, and
finding all quiet, I begged Frank to excuse me for a few moments.
"Where is Emily?" I asked of mother.
"She went to her room to lay aside her bonnet."
I followed, and found the poor girl in the very abandonment of grief.
She had tossed her bonnet into a chair, and was kneeling by the bed,
with her arms thrown over her head, which was buried in the pillow.
I knelt by her side, putting my arms around her. "Dear sister," I said,
"don't weep so. Do let me comfort you." But I stopped; what could I say?
After a few moments, she arose and sat by me. "Oh, Emily!" I said, "if
you look so, you will break my heart."
"I believe," she replied in a mournful tone, putting her hand to her
side, "that mine is broken. I thought I had schooled myself to hear
this. I ought to have expected it; but oh! I have deceived myself."
I was never more embarrassed for words to express sympathy, and was
awkwardly silent.
"Cora," said she, looking at me, "there is no human being but yourself
whom I would allow to witness my"--she hesitated, "my grief at this
intelligence. My poor mother would be so pained, if she knew her
daughter loved another woman's husband." This last sentence was spoken
in her old bitter tone, and carried me back to past years. "And it shall
not be. To-morrow you will see me the same as ever. Please, dear
sister," she added, in a softened tone, "never allude to my grief. It
will soon be over."
It was only when she spoke of herself that her voice was harsh and
severe. I looked with admiration at her as she drew up her form, and
revealed the Lenox will, Frank sometimes refers to.
Mother looked very happy as her daughter came in smiling and talking of
Lucy's improved appearance since her return. My face was by far the
sadder of the two. I have never been able to conceal my feelings. "Dear
mother," I thought as I bid her good night, "you would not sleep much if
you knew what an aching heart lay beneath that smiling face."
_Saturday, June 20th._
Cæsar carried me and my smaller treasures this afternoon to see Aunt
Susy, who has been rather failing in health this summer. Pauline has
been with me several times, and is always delighted to accompany me
there. But now I was going to introduce my little Nelly, though not
without some fears that the squeezing she would get, would frighten the
timid little thing. Aunt Susy is no longer able to watch at the door to
see who goes by; but her heart has not grown cold while sitting in her
easy chair. I stepped into the entry and knocked at the inner door.
"Walk right in!" In obedience to this invitation, I opened the door, and
with Nelly in my arms, went up to the old lady. She looked over her
glasses for a moment as if she did not recognize me with my baby, and
before she could say anything, I laid the little miss in her lap.
"Bless its little soul," said Aunt Susy, carefully laying aside her
knitting where the needles couldn't hurt the child. "Well Miss Lenox, if
that don't beat all. I never know'd you'd got another;" and to pay for
being kept in ignorance, she began in good earnest to squeeze it to her
large warm heart. The baby crowed with delight, and as oft as she had a
kiss, would give a snatch for the glasses. All this time Pauline and her
mother stood by unnoticed, while the dear child had her little red lips
made up for a kiss.
"Here, Aunt Susy," I said, "give me the baby, this young lady is waiting
her turn."
The good woman went into the business fundamentally, and now that she
undertook with Pauline, she was in no haste to get through. When they
stopped to take breath she looked in Pauline's face. "La! it beats all
natur how she grows like her pa."
The dear soul had forgotten the fact which interested her so much years
ago, and really supposed the child to be our own.
"There's--what do you call her?"
"Ellen," I answered.
"There's Ellen now, looks more like you, while Pauline is clear father.
I'll venture he sets a sight by her."
Pauline laughed, though she didn't know exactly the meaning of the
latter phrase.
"Blessed little soul," she resumed with another squeeze, "what made you
think o' that?"
"Because," said Pauline, "you are so kind."
I looked inquiringly at the whisperer.
"La!" said Aunt Susy wiping her eyes, "the dear little cretur says she
loves me, and I don't know what it's for, if 'taint that I loved your pa
long enough afore you was born; and I used to hold him on my lap, and
sing 'Ride a jack horse to Banbury cross,' and he'd laugh as hearty as
the baby did just now."
At this very moment Mrs. Wilson returned from the garden, when her
mother called out, "Darter, did you ever hear tell that Doctor Frank had
had another baby?"
"Oh, yes, mother!" she answered, shaking hands with me, "and you knew it
too at the time, but you've forgotten."
"Well, p'r'aps I did," she said with a sigh, "my memory's grown very
poor; but I haven't forgotten where my Saviour is," she added, her
countenance brightening, "nor he wont forget me; though sometimes I'm
almost tempted to fear he don't altogether remember how long I've been
expecting he'd send for me to go home. Every morning I ask him if it's
God's will to take me before night; and every night I pray to go before
the sun rises. But he knows best, and I try not to feel impatient o'
waiting for him."
I cannot describe the holy expression of the dear old lady as she said
this.
_Thursday, June 25th._
How little I thought when I wrote the last sentence, that I should never
more feel that warm embrace; never meet those eyes beaming with love.
The dear blessed woman is now where she so longed and prayed to be. Her
Saviour had not forgotten her, but came during the silent watches of the
night and took her home.
So silently did she resign her spirit to her beloved Lord, that not even
her daughter, whose room joins hers, and who heard her whispering her
prayers and hymns after she retired, knew aught of the solemn visitor.
But he was not unexpected, or unwelcome to the sleeper. She was so
impatient to answer the summons, she could not stop to bid farewell to
her earthly friends. Her Saviour called, and she hastened to obey.
In the morning Mrs. Wilson, after waiting beyond the usual time, stepped
softly to the bed side of her mother. Struck dumb by the gloriously
joyous expression, she went back to the sitting room and beckoned her
husband to look before she awoke the sleeper, then leaning forward,
said, "mother, _mother_!"
"Oh! wonder not, motherless daughter, that she is deaf to your call. Her
ears are listening to notes of heavenly music which ravish her soul. Her
eyes are feasting on her Saviour, and she is satisfied, now that she
beholds his face in glory!"
I could not resist the wish to see that beautiful countenance once more
before it was forever buried from sight; and my dear Frank went with me
to the chamber of death. I felt very sad as we approached the house; but
when I entered the room where I had always seen her, and looked beneath
the linen cloth which covered her from view, I could not weep. I felt as
if I had caught a glimpse of heaven.
"Surely," said I, "that wonderful smile is not of earth."
"Perhaps," said Frank, "it was the smile of welcome to the messenger who
summoned her home. Death was a welcome guest to her."
As we gazed we could follow her rapt spirit to the mansions of the
blessed, and behold her heart ever more expanding with love to her
Saviour and her God.
"Thy face
Is all at once spread over with a calm
More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy."
_Wednesday, July 29th._
We have heard that there are great preparations making in Waverley for
the welcome of their former pastor. It is now more than a year since Mr.
Tyler left them for another field of labor; and when the parish heard
that Mr. Benson had returned, they gave him a unanimous call to
resettle with them. They have not received a regular answer to their
call; but only that he will be with them, providence permitting, the
second Sabbath in August. They seem to feel sure, however, that he will
prefer to settle with the people of his first love. And they are ready
to offer him a better support than they were able to do formerly. The
young men are fitting up the grounds about the parsonage, and the whole
village is alive with interest. I can't tell whether to be glad or
sorry. Perhaps if Emily were to see him often, she would the sooner
conquer any remaining interest she may feel for him.
Since that first night, if she is indulging grief, she deceives even me.
Indeed, I told Frank to-day, after she left the room, that I considered
her uncommonly cheerful. But he thought otherwise, and gravely shook his
head.
_Thursday, July 30th._
The parish committee in Waverley have received a communication from Mr.
Benson, that he hopes to be with them on Thursday, the sixth day of
August, and should be happy to meet any of his old people in the vestry
or at any place they may appoint. No sooner did they hear this than they
determined that it should be a feast of welcome. They are perfectly
enthusiastic in their love for him. I only hope his wife may be a
suitable help-meet.
Mr. and Mrs. Munroe called here to-day to invite us in behalf of the
managing committee to be present on the occasion; I answered vaguely,
"that if the Doctor were at liberty," etc., etc.
_Friday, July 31st._
I am astonished at Emily--here she has been planning a journey to C----
and has never let us know it until to-day. I went in this morning to
give her and mother the invitation left by Mr. Munroe. She answered
gayly, "I should be happy to go, but I shall be far away before that
time."
"Where?" I asked in surprise.
"Oh, somewhere among the Catskill Mountains; but," she continued, "Ruth
and I have made a nice loaf of cake. It is bride's cake," she added,
laughing gayly, as she brought from the closet a large loaf beautifully
frosted. I forgot to mention, that cake, fruits, and flowers had been
solicited for the occasion.
"Cæsar," said Emily, "has promised me two bouquets made in his best
style; and remember, Mr. Benson is to hold one and his wife the other."
Then, with a low courtesy in acknowledgment of my profound amazement,
she deposited the cake in the closet again.
"Emily," said I, as mother answered a summons from the room, "I do
believe you're getting crazed."
"Why?"
"Because you laugh so much, and act so strangely."
"Well, dear sister," said she, growing very grave, "if crying will suit
you any better, I can easily do that," and leaning her head upon the
table, with her arms for her pillow, she gave way to a passionate burst
of grief.
"And sorrow too finds some relief
In tears which wait upon our grief."
I stood in the middle of the room perfectly confounded, and was
hesitating whether I ought not to run home for Frank, when hearing a
distant door shut she started up, throwing her arms around my neck, and
said hurriedly, "Dear sister, don't look so very sad. It has been a hard
struggle; but it is almost over. I seldom give way as I have done now;
that is too great a luxury to be indulged in often."
"At times e'en bitter tears yield sweet relief."
She turned to leave me; but I persisted in following her to her room.
We sat down after I had closed the door. Turning from our late subject,
she began to say something in a careless tone.
"Don't, Emily, don't speak so, that makes me feel worse than anything."
"Cora," she exclaimed in an excited tone, as unlike the other, as if she
were a different person, "_Cora_, what do you think you should do, if
after all the years you've loved Frank, you should suddenly find out
some day, you were committing sin every moment you continued to love
him? Supposing you should some day find out he had another wife?"
"Oh! sister," I answered, "I should die, I couldn't help loving Frank."
"No, that would be too easy; I'll tell you what you should do," drawing
herself up to her full height, and looking almost like a queen. "You
must tear up your love by the roots; you must never allow one tender
thought of him. Drive them out. _Drive them away!_ You must keep saying
to yourself, '_It is sin against God! It is sin against my own soul!_'
Night and day you must do this."
"Dear, darling sister," said I, weeping upon her neck, "Is this the way
you have to do?" I stood back and gazed at her with admiration. Never
had she seemed more beautiful. Her whole countenance was brilliant with
excitement; and she looked like one whose mind was made up to conquer or
to die. But as I stood, she put her arm lovingly around me. "Dearest
sister, I have done wrong to pain you thus; and for my own sake I must
avoid such scenes. I must struggle and conquer alone. No, not alone,"
she added in a subdued voice, "my Saviour will aid me."
I took my leave, wondering if Mr. Benson had ever known a pang like
hers. I acknowledged to myself a rising prejudice against the man for
loving another.
_Saturday, August 1st._
Emily is not quite well, and has postponed her journey until the first
of the week. How entirely mother is deceived by her calmness. She spoke
to me of it with tears in her eyes, and said she was so thankful that
the dear girl was quiet in her feelings. How little we know of the
misery that is passing before our eyes! But Emily is a noble hearted
woman; and she will not allow her grief, which she always remembers is
the effect of her own insincerity, to trouble her friends. I have no
doubt, I should sink under such a blow. My heart aches when I think my
tender-hearted, sensitive Pauline may be destined to such a trial. But
if she has not the Lenox blood in her, she certainly has a great deal of
character, and never will make a tame woman. I wonder what her little
sister will be?
_Wednesday, August 5th._
If I can steady my hand sufficiently to hold a pen I will tell you some
news. I went this afternoon to the village on an errand for Emily, who
is still suffering from an attack of her old complaint, the nervous
head-ache. In company with Pauline, I was walking home slowly, as it is
very warm, when a gentleman passed me on horse-back. I did not recognize
him; but when I addressed some remark to Pauline, he turned, sprang from
his horse, and was by my side in a moment.
"Mr. Benson!" I exclaimed in a glad voice, for at the time I only felt
my old respect for him. His manner was very cordial; and I could not but
acknowledge that he was greatly improved by his travels. But as he grew
more free, I became more embarrassed, and as he walked by my side
leading his horse, I began to wonder what I should do with him. He took
great notice of Pauline, in whom he was formerly much interested. He had
not yet inquired for sister, and I determined to give him no chance. "I
am surprised," I said, "to see you on horse-back."
"I was always fond of the exercise, and I have almost lived on the
backs of horses, or rather mules and camels for the last five years."
"But _now_," said I, hesitating, meaning without his wife.
His countenance brightened with a smile, as he said, "You will find me
very little changed in my tastes. I am just the same man."
I blushed with indignation, and wanted to say, "no, you are very much
altered, for you are a married man." "Where is your wife?" I asked,
after a pause.
He started and looked me full in the face. Seeing I still waited for an
answer, he said, "I did not understand you."
"Where is _Mrs._ Benson?" I repeated.
For an instant he looked terribly stern. Then recovering himself, and
evidently forcing a laugh, said, "that is a question far easier to ask
than to answer."
I made no reply, but looked at him in astonishment.
Seeing me very serious, he said, "I fear you are laboring under a
mistake, and are giving me more than is my due. I have not the happiness
to be a married man."
I'm sure, I can't tell whether I screamed, or not; I know I felt like
it. "And aren't you about to be married to Miss Karswell, from the
South?" I asked eagerly.
He bit his lips as he smiled and looked down, but presently said, "I
have not even that honor."
"And not to"--I checked myself in much confusion.
"Dear Mrs. Lenox," said he, taking my hand, "I see you are the same kind
friend as ever," and bowing adieu he sprang upon his horse and rode
away, looking back to send his regards to my husband. I had not time or
presence of mind to invite him to call. But as soon as we were in our
own grounds, I flew along the walks, up the steps into the library,
hoping Frank had returned. I must tell somebody. Fortunately he was
there. I ran across the room, and began to caress him so convulsively
that he started up to see what could have happened.
"Why, Cora, you're all in a heat. What excites you so?"
"Wait till I can get my breath," said I, "Oh, Frank! I'm so glad! Mr.
Benson isn't married!"
"But where is Miss Karswell from the South?" said he sternly.
"You need not look so grave, I _don't care_ where she is; only I know he
is neither married nor engaged to her."
"How do you know?" he inquired in a doubting tone.
"Because I asked him, and he told me so."
Frank now began to be as much astonished, and as eager for news as I
wished. I commenced at the beginning and related all the conversation.
"Now Frank," said I, when I had finished, "Emily mustn't go to C----.
Even if I had not seen Mr. Benson, and found out the mistake under which
we were laboring, she is not really well enough to undertake the journey
alone; and I feel confident that her only object in going was to avoid
meeting him at present."
"I grant all this, my dear, and love you for your enthusiastic interest
in your sister; but you are going too fast; and jumping at a conclusion
which may be far from true, that because he is not engaged to be married
to one particular lady at the South, it necessarily follows that he must
be in love with and wishing to marry a lady who haughtily refused him
five years ago. I can't say, my dear, I think logic is exactly your
forte."
"I don't wish any logic applied to my love nor to that of those with
whom I have to do. I want nothing but the outbursting of a full heart
which overleaps all the deductions of logic. I shouldn't think much of
any man's love, much less of a woman's," said I proudly, "who stopped to
reason and calculate."
Frank smiled, as he saw me working myself up into such an excitement.
"Well," said he, "I think I can name one man who reasoned and
calculated, as you so indignantly express it, and who, being well
convinced that reason justified and approved his love, he then
calculated his chance of success, and finding that a pair of bright eyes
grew brighter at his approach, and that notwithstanding all the owner's
efforts to prevent it, the blushes burned upon her cheeks, he continued,
"'You know, you must have known,
I long have lov'd--lov'd you alone,
But cannot know how dearly.'
'He told her if his hopes were cross'd,
His every aim in life was lost.
She knew he spoke sincerely.'"
"Then encouraged by her downcast looks, he allowed his heart free vent,
and soon found himself the fortunate owner of the most true, and loving
heart that ever man was blessed with."
I was completely overcome, though I tried to conceal it. "Oh!" said I,
"if the lords of creation were only not so vain. There might be ten
thousand things to make one blush beside"--but I felt my own cheeks
burn, and I concluded to return to the original subject. Frank advised
me certainly to tell Emily what I had intended, but by no means to
encourage in her the idea that Mr. Benson wished to renew his addresses
to her.
"You don't know, Emily," I said, "as well as I do. She has as proud a
spirit as your own; and I think, she would die rather than to allow any
one to suppose, she were sitting meekly waiting his affection."
_Thursday, August 6th._
After the conversation yesterday afternoon, I was obliged to own to
myself that I had been too hasty in my conclusions; and I determined to
be very careful of what I said to sister. I _walked_ over to the
cottage, therefore, instead of running, as I felt inclined, and found
mother alone in the parlor completing a dress for Emily.
"Where is sister?" I asked.
"She is in her room, packing. I wish you would persuade her to give up
this journey, or at least to postpone it. She really is not well."
"That is just my errand. Frank is decided against it."
"Well then, go and talk with the child, and I wish you success."
I peeped into the room, and saw her on her knees at the trunk, while
Ruth was passing articles to her young mistress from the drawers,
closets, etc. I said, "Ruth, I will take your place," and she went
below. Now I had prepared a kind of speech for the occasion; but at the
time I couldn't think of a word of it. "Emily," said I, sitting down
instead of assisting her, "I have come to ask a great favor of you. Will
you grant it?"
"Certainly, my love, why should you doubt it?"
"Well then, Frank, mother and I, are very unhappy to have you leave in
your present state of health, and we ask you to please defer your visit
to C---- until another time."
Emily looked much troubled, as she rose and stood before me. "You mean
kindly; but believe me, dear sister, it would be far better and easier
for me to be away. My head-ache is better, and is only occasioned by the
heat."
"Well, darling, will you, to please me, postpone it for one week?"
She stood a full minute, as if calculating her own strength to endure;
and then said, "I will, from such a motive, and for so short a time."
"Then," said I, joyfully, "one subject is disposed of. You've granted me
one favor,--I want another."
"You're fortunate," she replied, smiling, "in finding me in good humor.
However, you're not very troublesome in that way. I think I can venture
to promise."
"Well," said I, casting down my eyes, (I could not for my life meet
hers,) "I want that beautiful bride's cake."
"Why, Cora," she replied, as I glanced up and met a very mischievous
look, "I didn't know you were so fond of cake. I'll make you half a
dozen loaves."
"No, but I want _that_ one."
"Why?"
"Because," I answered, my heart leaping into my mouth, "there will be no
bride there to need it."
Emily started, and then said calmly, "that makes no difference."
"But," said I, eagerly, "he has no bride. Mr. Benson is _not_ married.
The report was false."
Poor girl! she fairly shook with emotion, and her face turned deadly
pale. She gazed at me for one instant, and then threw herself down by
the side of the bed. "My God, I thank thee for removing the awful load
of guilt from my heart," was all that I could hear, though she continued
a long time in that attitude. When she arose, I put my arm around her,
as she sat shading her face with her hand.
"Sister, you will be happier now."
"Yes, dear," she answered quietly, "you have removed a great load of
guilt from my soul, and I shall, I must feel happier."
After a pause, I whispered, "you will not object to meet Mr. Benson
now."
She started to her feet with such a world of meaning in her tone as she
said, "Cora!"
"I mean," said I, hesitating, "he is to be our neighbor again; and it
would be so much pleasanter, and better every way, to be on terms of
friendship with him."
She looked so proudly as she stood before me, and said, "that is hardly
possible; certainly not at all probable. He would not wish it."
"Oh, I am sure he would!" I exclaimed eagerly. "I have seen him, and he
says he is just the same man; that his tastes are not changed."
Oh! what a beautiful rosy blush spread all over her cheeks and brow; a
bright light danced for one moment in her eye, and leading me to the
door, she said in a low tone, "you have made me very happy. Please go
and tell mother. I must be alone." She put her hand to her heart to
still the new and strange feeling of hope that was springing up there.