Marian slipped her hand in his; that was her reply.

“You will love me?”

For all answer she gently pressed his fingers.  He pressed her hand to his heart, to his lips, covering it with kisses.

“Yet, oh! speak to me, dearest; let me hear from your lips that you love me—­a little—­but better than I deserve.  Will you?  Say, Marian!  Speak, dearest girl!”

“I cannot tell you now,” she said, in a low, thrilling tone.  “I am disturbed; I wish to grow quiet; and I must go home.  Let us return.”

One more passionate kiss of the hand he clasped, and then he helped her to her feet, drew her arm within his own, and led her up the moss-covered rocks that formed the natural steps of the ascent that led to the homeward path.

They were now near the verge of the forest, which, when they reached, Marian drew her arm from his, and, extending her hand, said: 

“This is the place our roads part.”

“But you will let me attend you home?”

“No; it would make the return walk too long.”

“That can be no consideration, I beg you will let me go with you, Marian.”

“No; it would not be convenient to Edith to-day,” said Marian, quickly drawing her hand from his detaining grasp, waving him adieu, and walking swiftly away across the meadow.

Thurston gazed after her, strongly tempted to follow her; yet withal admitting that it was best that she had declined his escort to the cottage, and thanking Heaven that the opportunity would again be afforded to take an “incidental” stroll with her, as she should walk to church on Sunday morning; and so, forming the resolution to haunt the forest-path from seven o’clock that next Sabbath morning until he should see her, Thurston hurried home.

And how was it with Marian?  She hastened to the cottage, laid off her bonnet and shawl, and set herself at work as diligently as usual; but a higher bloom glowed on her cheek, a softer, brighter light beamed in her eye, a warmer, sweeter smile hovered around her lips, a deeper, richer tone thrilled in her voice.

On Sunday morning the lovers “chanced” to meet again—­for so Thurston would still have had it appear as he permitted Marian to overtake him in the forest on her way to the Sunday-school.

She was blooming and beautiful as the morning itself as she approached.  He turned with a radiant smile to greet her.

“Welcome! thrice welcome, dearest one!  Your coming is more joyous than that of day.  Welcome, my own, dear Marian!  May I now call you mine?  Have I read that angel-smile aright?  Is it the blessed herald of a happy answer to my prayer?” he whispered, as he took her hand and passed his arm around her head and brought it down upon his bosom.  “Speak, my Marian!  Speak, my beloved!  Are you my own, as I am yours?”

Her answer was so low-toned that he had to bend his head down close to her lips to hear her murmur: