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Let us stop here: a maiden’s dreams are her own; we will not intrude. But at last that morning came, and Dolly’s heart beat faster than ever as she went down to her solitary breakfast; her eyes were star-bright, her half-open lips scarlet with eagerness, and her soft cheeks deeper of hue than the roseate gown sh
e wore, that shone under its translucent frillings and flutings of white with the “celestial rosy red” becoming the hour. But there was no missive beside her plate except the daily note from papa, and it interested her less than ever before that he was to come back to-morrow. Now she must wait till John went again to the office. How long and tedious were those hours! She decked the house with flowers from the greenhouse, she read and re-read the old newspaper story, she fed her cats and her chickens, made one rose-bud on her bit of embroidery, and watched the clocks, undoubting that the next mail would bring her the love-lorn epistle she had hoped and dreamed about so long it had become a fact, and its arrival a certainty. And at three John really brought it. There it was—a thick white cover guarded with its vermilion seal and mystic device.

Dolly shut herself into the library; glowing, trembling, blushing, she tore apart the envelope, and unfolded a creamy sheet bordered with narrow Greek tracery in rose and black and gold; across the top of the page was flung a branch of wild roses, innocent open blooms, delicate pointed buds, graceful foliage, and thorn-guarded stems, so perfectly drawn and tinted that they seemed almost odorous with summer’s forest breath; while at the very foot of the same page, creeping from the spaces and angles of the border, and crowding upward with baby faces, thick forget-me-nots, their sky-deep azure lit with golden eyes, seemed to sign, with artless assent, the three verses inscribed between them and the rose branch in a hand Dolly knew by heart, for had she not looked over Katy’s shoulder one day as the good creature read aloud to Parson Preston one of his colleague’s sermons? And these are the verses:

Perhaps if Augustus had not entered at that moment, half curious to know the effect of his missive, which he naturally supposed had reached Dolly in the morning—perhaps if she had had time to calm down the sudden passion of delight and gratitude and fondness—but why do I say perhaps? it is a delusive form of speech, with possibilities that stretch far back into Eden, for perhaps if Eve had not eaten that apple!—But he did enter, just as the third reading of his verses was ended, and Dolly, turning from the beatitude of the writing, perceived the writer. Pretty little innocent! witless as a new-fledged bird, she trembled and flew to him; her head was on his shoulder, her perfumy, silken, floating tresses crowded against his cheek, her little tender hands upon his breast, before the astonished young parson could peep or mutter.

He was awfully shocked, grieved, amused (though he never would have owned this last emotion), and touched in spite of himself. Involuntarily his arms folded around her. I suppose there are people who would say it was an automatic action of the unconscious nervous centres. I don’t think it was. But, dear, proper, right-minded reader, just think of it! what could he do? He certainly had a quick intellect: so much the worse for him just now! for while Dolly for one minute’s space nestled close to his heart, as ifshe had just got home and was soglad, at least three pages of thoughts fled pell-mell through our dear young minister’s brain. He saw, like a drowning man, all the past—at least of his Basset life—in array before him, and quite innocent he was, as regarded Dolly, in intention; but she—why, she was a child! Only a child could have been so pure of impulse, so thoughtless in action. But now—now she had bloomed into a woman, and what was he to do? Surely one thing only could be done to save Dolly, to satisfy her father.