After the usual preface to such tender discussions, Art listened with
a good deal of anxiety, but without the slightest doubt of her firmness
and attachment, to an account of the promise she had given her father.
"Well, but, Margaret darlin'," said he, "what will happen if they
refuse?"
"Surely, you know it is too late for them to refuse now; arn't we as
good as married--didn't we pass the Hand Promise--isn't our troth
plighted?"
"I know that, but suppose they should still refuse, then what's to be
done? what are you and I to do?"
"I must lave that to you, Art," she replied archly.
"And it couldn't be in better hands, Margaret; if they refuse their
consent, there's nothing for it but a regular runaway, and that will
settle it."
"You must think I'm very fond of you," she added playfully, "and I
suppose you do, too."
"Margaret," said Art, and his face became instantly overshadowed with
seriousness and care, "the day may come when I'll feel how necessary you
will be to guide and support me."
She looked quickly into his eyes, and saw that his mind appeared
disturbed and gloomy.
"My dear Art," she asked, "what is the meaning of your words, and why is
there such sadness in your face?"
"There ought not to be sadness in it," he said, "when I'm sure of
you--you will be my guardian angel may be yet.
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