"
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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