But Mary Ellen did not smile.
"Yes," she repeated softly, "I remember."
"And then I laughed a little, and got out of the study the best way I
could, and ran over to you to tell you what he said. And I left the
sermon in your work-basket. I've often wished, in the light of what
came afterwards--I've often wished I'd kept it. Somehow 'twould have
brought me nearer to you."
It seemed as if she were about to rise from her chair, but she quieted
herself and dulled the responsive look upon her face.
"Mary Ellen," the parson burst forth, "I know how I took what came on
us the very next week, but I never knew how you took it. Should you
just as lieves tell me?"
She lifted her head until it held a noble pose. Her eyes shone
brilliantly, though indeed they were doves' eyes.
"I'll tell you," said she "I couldn't have told you ten years ago,--no,
nor five! but now it's an old woman talking to an old man. I was given
to understand you were tired of me, and too honorable to say so. I
don't know what tale was carried to you"--
"She said you'd say 'yes' to that rich fellow in Sudleigh, if I'd give
you a chance!"
"I knew 'twas something as shallow as that. Well, I'll tell you how I
took it. I put up my head and laughed.
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