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Never, never in her life had she been so happy.
How gallantly he bent before her—as gallantly and
proudly as if she were a princess and he her chosen
favorite.
He made use of many phrases in speaking to her,
as the old do, but she only smiled and was happy.
Toward evening he offered her his arm, and they
took a walk in the old, neglected garden. She did
not see how ugly and ill-kept it was. The overgrown
shrubs were clipped hedges to her, the ragged
grass-plots spread into level lawns, long alleys of
trees shaded her, and statues of Youth and Hope,
of Truth and Love, gleamed white amid the deep
green foliage.
She had heard he had been married, but she
forgot it now. Who could remember such things?
She was but twenty, and he was twenty-five—only
twenty-five, and so strong in the pride of his youth!
Was he to become the miserly Broby parson—he,
that smiling youth?
Sometimes he seemed to hear a whisper of the
ill fate in store for him—but the wail of the poor,
the curse of the deceived, the looks of scorn, the
lampoons and sneers, were not his yet. His heart
held but a pure, unselfish love.
Could that proud youth so love gold that he
would creep into the lowest mire after it, beg it
from the wayfaring, suffer humiliation and insult,
cold and hunger, for its sake? Would he let his
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