They stood locked in each other's
arms,--the glowing, vigorous, strong-hearted girl, with that pale,
spiritual face resting on her breast, as when the morning, songful and
radiant, clasps the pale silver moon to her glowing bosom.
"Look here now, Mary," said Cerinthy; "your folks are all gone. You may
as well walk with me. It's pleasant now."
"Yes, I will," said Mary; "wait a minute, till I get my bonnet."
In a few moments the two girls were walking together in one of those
little pasture foot-tracks which run so cozily among huckleberry and
juniper bushes, while Cerinthy eagerly pursued the subject she could
not leave thinking of.
Their path now wound over high ground that overlooked the distant sea,
now lost itself in little copses of cedar and pitch-pine, and now there
came on the air the pleasant breath of new hay, which mowers were
harvesting in adjoining meadows.
They walked on and on, as girls will; because, when a young lady has
once fairly launched into the enterprise of telling another all that
_he_ said, and just how _he_ looked, for the last three months, walks
are apt to be indefinitely extended.
Mary was, besides, one of the most seductive little confidantes in the
world. She was so pure from selfishness, so heartily and innocently
interested in what another was telling her, that people in talking with
her found the subject constantly increasing in interest,--although, if
they really had been called upon afterwards to state the exact portion
in words which she added to the conversation, they would have been
surprised to find it so small.
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