Marian was silent, not deeming an answer called for.

“And now, I ask you, how you could prevent it?”

“I shall not be required to prevent such an act, Thurston, as such a one never can take place.  You speak so only to try your Marian’s faith or temper—­both are proof against jests, I think.  Hitherto you have trifled with the young lady’s affections for mere ennui and thoughtlessness, I do believe! but, now that some of the evil consequences have been suggested to your mind, you will abandon such perilous pastime.  You are going to France soon—­that will be a favorable opportunity of breaking off the acquaintance.”

“And breaking her heart—­who knows?  But suppose now that I should prefer to marry her and take her with me?”

“Nay, of course, I cannot for an instant suppose such a thing.”

“But in spite of all your warnings, were such an event about to take place?”

“In such an exigency I should divulge our marriage.”

“You would?”

“Assuredly!  How can you possibly doubt it?  Such an event would abrogate my obligations to silence, and would impose upon me the opposite duty of speaking.”

“I judged you would reason so,” he said, bitterly.

“But, dear Thurston, of what are you talking?  Of the event of your doing an unprincipled act!  Impossible, dear Thurston! and forever impossible!”

“And equally impossible, fair saint, that you should divulge our marriage with any chance of proving it.  Marian, the minister that married us has sailed as a missionary to Farther India.  And I only have the certificate of our marriage.  You cannot prove it.”

“I shall not need to prove it, Thurston.  Now that I have awakened your thoughts, I know that you will not further risk the peace of that confiding girl.  Come! take my hand and let us return.  We must hasten, too, for there is rain in that cloud.”

Thurston—­piqued that he could not trouble her more—­for under her calm and unruffled face he could not see the bleeding heart—­arose sullenly, drew her hand within his arm and led her forth.

And as they went the wind arose, and the storm clouds drove over the sky and lowered and darkened around them.

Marian urged him to walk fast on account of the approaching tempest, and the anxiety the family at the cottage would feel upon her account.

They hurried onward, but just as they reached the neighborhood of Old Fields a terrible storm of hail and snow burst upon the earth.

It was as much as they could do to make any progress forward, or even to keep themselves upon their feet.  While struggling and plunging blindly through the storm, amid the rushing of the wind and the rattling of the hail, and the crackling and creaking of the dry trees in the forest, and the rush of waters, and all the din of the tempest, Marian’s ear caught the sound of a child wailing and sobbing.  A pang shot through her heart.  She listened breathlessly—­and then in the pauses of the storm she heard a child crying, “Marian, Marian!  Oh! where are you, Marian?”