She was tripping lightly along, singing as gaily
as a bird, when she came suddenly upon the young man, over whose
face there passed an instant glow of admiration. Mark bowed and
smiled, the maiden dropped a bashful courtesy, and then each passed
on; but neither to forget the other. When Mark turned, after a few
steps, to gaze after the sweet wild flower he had met so
unexpectedly, he saw the face again, for she had turned also. He did
not go home on that evening, until he had seen the lovely being who
glanced before him in her native beauty, enter a neat little cottage
that stood half a mile from Fairview, nearly hidden by vines, and
overshadowed by two tall sycamores.
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.
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