Margery had no other knowledge of French than the few
words gleaned in her slow progress among a frontier on which, it is
true, more of that language than of any other was heard, but heard
under circumstances that were not particularly favorable to the
acquisition of a foreign tongue. Had she understood the real meaning
of "Bourdon," she would have bitten off her tongue before she would
have once called Boden by such an appellation; though the bee-hunter
himself was so accustomed to his Canadian nickname as to care
nothing at all about it. But Margery did not like to give pain to
any one; and, least of all, would she desire to inflict it on the
bee-hunter, though he were only an acquaintance of a day. Still,
Margery could not muster sufficient courage to tell her new friend
how much he was mistaken, and that of all the youths she had ever
met she would most prefer to keep him near her brother and sister in
their distress; while the young man, inspired by a pure and infant
passion, was just in the frame of mind to believe the worst of
himself, and of his claims to the attention of her who had begun to
occupy so many of his thoughts.
No explanation occurring, our young people descended from the hill,
misconceiving each other's meaning and wishes, and unhappy under the
influence of an ideal source of misery, when actual circumstances
created so many that were substantial and real.
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