Yet, what do I say," she pursued,
in a tone of deep sorrow, "I lament the flowers; yes,
Ronayne, because they have thriven under your care, and
yet, I forget that my father perhaps no longer lives;
that my beloved mother's death may be the early consequence
of this removal. Yet think me not selfish. Think me not
ungrateful. Come what may, you will yet be left to me.
No, Harry," and she looked up to him tearfully, "I shall
never be utterly destitute, while you remain."
"Bless you, thrice bless you for these sweet avowals of
your confidence," exclaimed the youth, suddenly dropping
her arm, and straining her passionately to his heart.
"Yes, Maria, I shall yet remain to love, to cherish, to
make you forget every other tie in that of husband--to
blend every relationship in that of one."
"Nay, Ronayne," she quickly returned, while the color
mounted vividly to her cheek, under the earnest ardor of
his gaze, "I would not now unsay what I have said, and
yet I did not intend that my words should exactly bear
that interpretation--nor is this a moment--"
"But still you will be my wife--tell me, Maria?" and he
looked imploringly into her own not averted eyes.
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