"
There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could
not gainsay, so we walked on in silence.
After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thickly
shaded with forest-trees as to give it a complete air of
seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough
in its appearance for the most pastoral poet; and yet it had a
pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a
profusion of foliage; a few trees threw their branches gracefully
over it; and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully
disposed about the door, and on the grass-plot in front. A small
wicket-gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some
shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound
of music--Leslie grasped my arm; we paused and listened. It was
Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity,
a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond.
I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward, to
hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel-walk. A
bright beautiful face glanced out at the window, and vanished--a
light footstep-was heard--and Mary came tripping forth to meet
us. She was in a pretty rural dress of white; a few wild flowers
were twisted in her fine hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek;
her whole countenance beamed with smiles--I had never seen her
look so lovely.
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