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Richardson, John, 1796-1852

"Hardscrabble; or, the fall of Chicago. a tale of Indian warfare"

"You
will be the wife, as you have long been the friend and
companion of your Ronayne--answer me. Will you not?"
Her head sank upon his shoulder, and the heaving of her
bosom, as she gently returned his embrace, alone conveyed
the assurance he desired. She was deeply affected. She
knew the ardent, generous nature of her lover, and she
felt that every word that had just fallen from his lips,
tended only to unravel the true emotions of his heart:
but soothing as was his impassioned language, she deemed
it almost criminal, at such a moment, to listen to it.
"Nay, dearest Harry," she said, gently disengaging herself
from his embrace, "we will be seen. They may wonder at
our delay, and send somebody back from the scow. Let us
proceed."
"You are right," replied the young officer, again passing
her arm through his own, while they continued their route,
"excess of happiness must not cause me to commit an
imprudence so great, as that of suffering another to
divine the extent. Yet one word more, dear Maria! and
ah! think how much depends upon your answer. WHEN shall
I call you mine?"
"Oh! speak not now of that, Ronayne--consider the position
of my father--my mother's health.


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