FullReads

On the next morning Mark took his way toward the cottage with his gun. As he drew near, the sweet voice he had heard on the day before was warbling tenderly an old song his mother had sung when he was but a child; and with the air and words so well remembered, came a gentleness of feeling, and a love of what was pure and innocent, such as he had not experienced for many years. In this state of mind he entered the little porch, and stood listening for several minutes to the voice that still flung itself plaintively or joyfully upon the air, according to the sentiment breathed in the words that were clothed in music; then as the voice became silent, he rapped gently at the door, which, in a few moments, was opened by the one whose attractions had drawn him thither.

A warm color mantled the young girl’s face as her eyes fell upon so unexpected a visitor. She remembered him as the young man she had met on the evening before; about whom she had dreamed all night, and thought much since the early morning. Mark bowed, and, as an excuse for calling, asked if her mother were at home.

“My mother died when I was but a child,” replied the girl, shrinking back a step or two; for Mark was gazing earnestly into her face.

“Ah! Then you are living with your–your–“

“Mrs. Lee has been a mother to me since then,” said she, dropping her eyes to the floor.

“Then I will see the good woman who has taken your mother’s place.” Mark stepped in as he spoke, and took a chair in the neat little sitting room into which the door opened.

“She has gone over to Mr. Lofton’s,” said the girl, in reply, “and won’t be back for an hour.”

“Has she, indeed? Then you know Mr. Lofton?”

“Oh, yes. We know him very well. He owns our little cottage.”

“Does he! No doubt you find him a good landland.”

“He’s a kind man,” said the girl, earnestly.

“He is, as I have good reason to know,” remarked the young man. “Mr. Lofton is my grandfather.”

The girl seemed much surprised at this avowal, and appeared less at ease than before.

“And now, having told you who I am,” said Mark, “I think I may be bold enough to ask your name.”

“My name is Jenny Lawson,” replied the girl.

“A pretty name, that–Jenny–I always liked the sound of it. My mother’s name was Jenny. Did you ever see my mother? But don’t tremble so! Sit down, and tell your fluttering heart to be still.”

Jenny sunk into a chair, her bosom heaving, and the crimson flush still glowing on her cheeks, while Mark gazed into her face with undisguised admiration.

“Who would have thought,” said he to himself, “that so sweet a wild flower grew in this out of the way place.”

“Did you ever see my mother, Jenny?” asked the young man, after she was a little composed.

“Mrs. Clifford?”

“Yes.”

“Often.”

“Then we will be friends from this moment, Jenny. If you knew my mother then, you must have loved her. She has been dead now over three years.”

There was a shade of sadness in the young man’s voice as he said this.

“When did you see her last?” he resumed.

“The summer before she died she came up from New York and spent two or three weeks here. I saw her then, almost every day.”

“And you loved my mother? Say you did!”

The young man spoke with a rising emotion that he could not restrain.

“Every body loved her,” replied Jenny, simply and earnestly.

For a few moments Mark concealed his face with his hands, to hide the signs of feeling that were playing over it; then looking up again, he said–

“Jenny, because you knew my mother and loved her, we must be friends. It was a great loss to me when she died. The greatest loss I ever had, or, it may be, ever will have. I have been worse since then. Ah me! If she had only lived!”