"But it is beautiful weather, and I enjoy walking," said the young girl.
"Marian--dearest Marian, will you let me attend you home? The walk is
lonely, and it may not be quite safe for a fair woman to take it
unattended."
"I have no fear of interruption," said Marian.
"Yet you will not refuse to let me attend you? Do not, Marian!" he
pleaded, earnestly, fervently, clasping her hand, and pouring the whole
strength of his soul in the gaze that he fastened on her face.
"I thank you; but you were riding the other way."
"It was merely an idle saunter, to help to kill the time between this
and Sunday, dearest girl. Now, rest you, my queen! my queen! upon this
mossy rock, as on a throne, while I ride forward and leave my horse. I
will be with you again in fifteen minutes; in the meantime here is
something for you to look at," he said, drawing from his pocket an
elegant little volume bound in purple and gold, and laying it in her
lap. He then smiled, sprang into his saddle, bowed, and galloped away,
leaving Marian to examine her book. It was a London copy of Spenser's
Fairy Queen, superbly illustrated, one of the rarest books to be found
in the whole country at that day. On the fly-leaf the name of Marian was
written, in the hand of Thurston.
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