And Marian dropped her blushing face upon his shoulder--she was blushing
not from bashful love alone--with it mingled a feeling of shame, regret,
and mistrust, because he praised so much her form and face; because he
seemed to love her only for her superficial good looks. She would have
spoken if she could have done so; she would have told what was on her
heart as earnest as a prayer by saying:
"Oh, do not think so much of this perishable, outward beauty; accident
may ruin it, sickness may injure it, time will certainly impair it. Do
not love me for that which I have no power over, and which may be taken
from me at any time--which I shall be sure to lose at last--love me for
something better and more lasting than that. I have a heart in this
bosom worth all the rest, a heart that in itself is an inner world--a
kingdom worthy of your rule--a heart that neither time, fortune, nor
casualty can ever change--a heart that loves you now in your strong and
beautiful youth, and will love you when you are old and gray, and when
you are one of the redeemed of heaven. Love me for this heart."
But to have saved her own soul or his, Marian could not then have spoken
those words.
So he continued to caress her--every moment growing more and more
enchanted with her loveliness.
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