The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1872-05-04

slender fingers, and melted my heart at
once. Sorry and ashamed, and afraid to
speak, but more hopeful and happy than l
had often felt, 1 went quietly, and stood
behind her chair.
George" she said presently, in her poor
little broken voice. Are you there?
'Yes, Dora
Are you very angry with me"
l put one of my hands down over the
chair back, and drew hers away from be-
fore her face, and then came round and
kissed it; could not think of anything
better to do.
You are not going away?'
l shook my head. THAT is not for me
to say
who then? Will you please tell me
what you mean, George She was very
gentle and submissive, but the coaxing
voice trembled painfully, and the burning
hand touched began to grow cold
1T is for you to say, Dora, Dear! Did
you need to ask me that, after all these
years?'
Without single word, but with fond
impulsive movement, that answered quite
well instead, she turned to me, and putting
both her little arms around my neck, laid
her feverish cheek against mine, and cried
as if her heart were breaking.
My dearest! what is the matter?'
Il thought you were angry with me, and
and had gone for good; thought had
worn your patience out at last, and you
would never forgive me or come back
again. Why did you come back, Georgy?'
Because loved you, Dora, and couldn't
stay away
yes, you would, if had not been sick
mother told me so. had treated you
too shamefully, and wound you too cruelty;
but it hurt me, too, and deserved to have
you not forgive me for all must have
made you suffer. You were proud, but
you were very patient, Georgy; how long
have plagued you?'
Twenty years"
Then have loved you twenty years,
and tried not to let you know it. l was
very proud, very wicked, very mean, but
am sorrow now. was ashamed to have
you or anybody see how much liked you;
but now l don't care, I'll tell the truth
before die. l am glad am sick, George;
for if don't get well, you will remember
what I said, and will have thought better
of me; and if live
MY dear Dora, you are to marry me in
three weeks, so don't let us talk about
dying; you have little cold, that is all,
and I'll give you time to get over it, and
recover your voice, and get those ugly
blisters off your face
Is it Gerry ugly9' she whispered, hiding
it gainst my shoulder.
:Very ugly, indeed, and hope it will
stay so, till we are married; then we shall
have no more flirting with Tom Hayes;
would like to have murdered him yester-
day, when-when you wanted me to drown,
and not him, Dora
'Oh, George! didn't know the dread
full danger till it was too late, and were
gone. 1 knew you were brave, and could
swim, and he wasn't or couldn't thought
you would you do it easily, and never
dreamed you could be drowned, till you
were in the water, and he told me, and
then
And then my little heroine risked her
life to save me-
i wouldn't have cared to i've Without
And cried over me when was landed p
Il was so glad and thankful, dear
George
But was ashamed to let Tom Hayes see
it afterward.'
No, only ashamed is speak to you, be-
cause l had behaved so badly, afraid you
would order me away from your sight for
ever, as soon as you were able. am bad,
1 know; but indeed, indeed 1 am not SO
bad as you think me-!
All. how easy it was to believe it, with
that sweetly humble voice whispering in
my ear; those pleading eyes truthfully
looking into mine; the new charm of her
timid, deprecating manner, going straight
to my unfortunate, yielding heart, and
conquering at once all the territory that
had not succumbed to her earlier graces,
when in health and spirits. Yet l had seen
something of this 'death-bed repentance
before, and l should have preferred to
marry her at once, while the swelled nose
and the weakened eyes disabled her from
rather than to use my humble
skill to restore her to health and beauty,
and the society of Mr.. Hayes-rewarded
by having my marriage indefinitely post
poned, and my promised bride indefinitely
me. A physician is accustom-
ed to see promises, made in sickness, I'M
performed in health, and the debt Of graft
tude, or otherwise, to the medical attend
ant left unacknowledged and unpaid: he is
obliged to calculate the chances of his fees
pretty closely, yon see. These thoughts
was weakly about to reveal to Dora, when
a tumbling and snorting at the door an
nounced Rover, and happily prevented me.
Shall let him in? politely inquired
of the invalid.
Just as you please, DEAR she gently
If he is so disagreeeable to you,
perhaps had better give him away she
added timidly.
Heavens! what a change. l was COM
pletely subdued by that last convincing
proof of affection; though as to giving him
away, what mortal in his senses would take
him? Of coarse he remained, to become a
of my family, growing dearsr, to
us both as he broke uncounted crockery, 1
involved us in innumerable quarrels with
our neighbors, and fattened upon meat at
ten cents pound, like the favorite of a
Chinese epicure. At the very altar, or
rather, I should say, the piano, before
which we stood to be married, he interfer-
ed with the happy arrangement of the bri-
ial party, with his i'll timed Establishments;
but afterward did me good service by get
Ting under the feet of my groomsman, Mr..
Hayes and endangering his equilibrium as
he was about to salute the bride.
Poor Hayes" l said. pityingly alluGing
to this failure afterward with her.