In this way she was seated between them one Sunday afternoon; her
hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown open, and
the soft air that stole in brought with it the fragrance of the
clustering honeysuckle which her own hands had trained round the
window.
Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible: it spoke
of the vanity of worldly things and of the joys of heaven: it
seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity through her bosom.
Her eye was fixed on the distant village church: the bell had
tolled for the evening service; the last villager was lagging
into the porch, and everything had sunk into that hallowed
stillness peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were gazing on
her with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which pass so
roughly over some faces, had given to hers the expression of a
seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft blue eye. Was she thinking
of her faithless lover? or were her thoughts wandering to that
distant churchyard, into whose bosom she might soon be gathered?
Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard: a horseman galloped to the
cottage; he dismounted before the window; the poor girl gave a
faint exclamation and sunk back in her chair: it was her
repentant lover.
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