A rush of pleasure thrilled all through his veins; he gave her words a meaning and a value for himself that they did not certainly possess; he forgot that the grace extended to him was extended to all—­nay, that she had even said as much in the very words that gave it.  He answered: 

“And if I do, fairest Marian, shall I, too, hear my own Christian name in music from your lips?”

“Oh, I do not know,” said the beautiful girl, laughing and blushing.  “If it ever comes naturally, perhaps; certainly not now.  Why, the venerable Colonel Thornton calls me ‘Marian,’ but it never comes to me to call him ‘John!’”

CHAPTER XIII.

LOVE.

This was but one of many such meetings, Thurston growing more and more infatuated each time, while Marian scarcely tried to hide the pleasure which his society gave her.

One day when riding through the forest he met Marian returning from the village and on foot.  She was radiant with health and beauty, and blushing and smiling with joy as she met him.  A little basket hung upon her arm.  To dismount and join her, to take the basket from her arm, and to look in her face and declare in broken exclamations his delight at seeing her, were the words and the work of an instant.

“And whither away this morning, fairest Marian?” he inquired, when unrebuked he had pressed her hand to his lips, and drawn it through his arm.

“I have been to the village, and am now going home,” said the maiden.

“It is a long walk through the forest.”

“Yes; but my pony has cast a shoe and lamed himself slightly, and I fear I shall have to dispense with his services for a few days.”

“Thank God!” fervently ejaculated Thurston to himself.

“But it is beautiful weather, and I enjoy walking,” said the young girl.

“Marian—­dearest Marian, will you let me attend you home?  The walk is lonely, and it may not be quite safe for a fair woman to take it unattended.”

“I have no fear of interruption,” said Marian.

“Yet you will not refuse to let me attend you?  Do not, Marian!” he pleaded, earnestly, fervently, clasping her hand, and pouring the whole strength of his soul in the gaze that he fastened on her face.

“I thank you; but you were riding the other way.”

“It was merely an idle saunter, to help to kill the time between this and Sunday, dearest girl.  Now, rest you, my queen! my queen! upon this mossy rock, as on a throne, while I ride forward and leave my horse.  I will be with you again in fifteen minutes; in the meantime here is something for you to look at,” he said, drawing from his pocket an elegant little volume bound in purple and gold, and laying it in her lap.  He then smiled, sprang into his saddle, bowed, and galloped away, leaving Marian to examine her book.  It was a London copy of Spenser’s Fairy Queen, superbly illustrated, one of the rarest books to be found in the whole country at that day.  On the fly-leaf the name of Marian was written, in the hand of Thurston.