"Thou hast not come alone, Martha," said the youth, half-displeased. "I
told thee that the matter I had to say was for thine own ear."
"It is our Ruth. Thou knowest, Mark, that she may not be left alone, for
we fear her return to the forest. She is like some ill-tamed fawn, that
would be apt to leap away at the first well-known sound from the woods.
Even now, I fear that we are too much asunder.
"Fear nothing; my sister fondles her infant, and she thinketh not of
flight; thou seest I am here to intercept her, were such her intention.
Now speak with candor, Martha, and say if thou meanest in sincerity that
the visits of the Hartford gallant, were less to thy liking than most of
thy friends have believed?"
"What I have said cannot be recalled."
"Still it may be repented of."
"I do not number the dislike I may feel for the young man among my
failings. I am too happy, here, in this family, to wish to quit it.
And now that our sister----there is one speaking to her at this
moment, Mark!"
"Tis only the innocent," returned the young man, glancing his eye to the
other end of the piazza.
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