they are sitting now together after a month’s acquaintance, and the reader shall judge of Margaret by what he sees.  It is a day for lovers.  The earth is bathed in light, and southerly breezes, such as revive the dying and cheer their heavy hours with promises of amendment and recovery, temper the fire that streams from the unclouded sun.  In the garden of the cottage, in a secluded part of it, there is a summer-house—­call it beauty’s bower—­with Margaret within—­and honeysuckle, clematis, and the passion flower, twining and intertwining, kissing and embracing, around, above, below, on every side.  There they are sitting.  He reads a book—­and a paragraph has touched a chord in one of the young hearts, to which the other has responded.  She moves her foot unconsciously along the floor, her downcast eye as unconsciously following it.  He dares to raise his look, and with a palpitating heart, observes the colour in her cheek, which tells him that the heart is vanquished, and the prize is won.  He tries to read again, but eyesight fails him, and his hand is shaking like a leaf.  His spirit expands, his heart grows confident and rash—­he knows not what he does—­he cannot be held back, though death be punishment if he goes on—­he touches the soft hand, and in an instant, the drooping, almost lifeless Margaret—­drawn to his breast—­fastens there, and sobs.  She whispers to him to be gone—­her clammy hand is pressing him to stay.

* * * * *

CHAPTER VI.

A DEATH AND A DISCOVERY.

I am really inclined to believe, after all, that the best mode of finally extinguishing sorrow for a dead husband, is to listen quietly to the reasonable pleas of a live lover.  After the scene to which it has been my painful task to allude in the last chapter, it would have been the very height of prudery on the part of the lady and gentleman, had they avoided speaking on the subject in which they had both become so deeply interested.  They did not attempt it.  The first excitement over, Margaret entreated her lover to be gone.  He did not move.  She conjured him, as he valued her esteem, to flee from that spot, and to return to it no more.  He pressed her hand to his devoted lips.  “What would become of her?” she emphatically exclaimed, clasping her taper fingers in distrust and doubt.  “You will be mine, dear Margaret,” was the wild reply, and the taper fingers easily relaxed—­gave way—­and got confounded with his own.  After the lapse of four-and-twenty hours, reason returned to both; not the cold and calculating capacity that stands aloof from every suggestion of feeling, but that more sensible and temporizing reason, that with the will goes hand-in-hand, and serves the blind one as a careful guide.  They met—­for they had parted suddenly, abruptly—­in the summer-house, by previous appointment.  Michael pleaded his affection—­his absorbing and devoted love.  She has objections numerous—­insuperable; they dwindle down to one or two, and these as weak and easily overcome as woman’s melting heart itself.  They meet to argue, and he stays to woo.  They bandy words and arguments for hours together, but all their logic fails in proof; whilst one long, passionate, parting kiss, does more by way of demonstration than the art and science ever yet effected.