“Ay, by day—­and thou art ever with me in my dreams.”

“And I will be with thee always!”

“Do!” said she.

“But dost thou not sometimes repine that thy life is thus spent in the wilderness far from the busy world?”

“I sometimes wish I could see the beautiful cities I read of—­but when I think of the treacheries and miseries of the world, I look at the pure fresh flowers, and list to the sweet birds around me, and then I think there is more happiness to be enjoyed here than anywhere else.”

“And such is truly the case,” said Glenn, pondering “But then, Mary, we all have obligations to discharge.  We were created for society—­to associate with our species, and while mingling with kindred beings, it is our duty to bestow as many benefits on them as may be within the scope of our power.”

“You think, then, we should leave our western home?” she asked, with undisguised interest.

“Wilt thou not consent to go?”

“If you go, I will go!” said she.

“And now I declare I will not go unless thou art willing.”

“But is it a duty?” she asked.

“Your fa—­Mr. Roughgrove says so.”

“Then let us go!  But why did you not say father?”

“He is not your father.”

“No!” exclaimed the maid, turning pale.

“I will tell thee all, Mary.”  And Glenn related the story of the maiden’s birth.  “Now, Mary,” he continued, “thou knowest thine own history.  Thou art of a noble race, according to the rules of men—­nay, thy blood is royal—­if thou wouldst retract thy plighted faith (I should have told thee this before,) speak, and thy will shall be done!”

“Oh!  Charles!  I am thine, THINE ONLY, were I born an angel!” she cried, throwing herself into his arms.  At this juncture a violent rustling was heard in the bushes not far distant, and the next moment Joe’s voice rang out.

“Oh me!  Oh St. Peter!  Oh murder! murder! murder!” cried he.  Instantly all the party were collected round him.  He lay in a small open space on the grass, with his basket bottom upward at his side, and all the berries scattered on the ground.

“What is the matter?” asked Glenn.

“Oh, I’m snake-bitten!  I’m a dead man!  I’m dying!” cried he, piteously.

“That’s a fib,” said Sneak, “bekaise a dead man can’t be a dying.”

“Let me see,” said William, stooping down to examine the place on which Joe’s hands were convulsively pressed.  With some difficulty he pulled them away, and tearing down the stocking, actually saw a small bleeding puncture over the ankle bone!

“What kind of a snake was it?” asked Glenn in alarm.  “A rattlesnake—­Oh!”

“Did you see it?” continued Glenn, knowing Joe’s foible, though it was apparent he suffered from some kind of a wound.

“I heard it rattle.  Oh, my goodness!  I’m going fast!  I’m turning blind!”