Not so with little Birdie; she is happy--oh, _so_ happy: she rises with a
song upon her lips, and is chirping in the sunshine she herself creates,
the live-long day. Flowers of innocence bloom and flourish in her peaceful
lithesome heart. Poor, poor, little Birdie! those flowers are destined to
wither soon, and the sunlight fade from thy happy face for ever.
One morning, Clarence, little Birdie, and her intended bridesmaid, Miss
Ellstowe, were chatting together, when a card was handed to the latter,
who, on looking at it, exclaimed, "Oh, dear me! an old beau of mine; show
him up," and scampering off to the mirror, she gave a hasty glance, to see
that every curl was in its effective position.
"Who is it?" asked little Birdie, all alive with curiosity; "do say who it
is."
"Hush!" whispered Miss Ellstowe, "here he comes, my dear; he is very
rich--a great catch; are my curls all right?"
Scarcely had she asked the question, and before an answer could be
returned, the servant announced Mr. George Stevens, and the gentleman
walked into the room.
Start not, reader, it is not the old man we left bent over the prostrate
form of his unconscious daughter, but George Stevens, junior, the son and
heir of the old man aforesaid. The heart of Clarence almost ceased to beat
at the sound of that well-known name, and had not both the ladies been so
engrossed in observing the new-comer, they must have noticed the deep flush
that suffused his face, and the deathly pallor that succeeded it.
Pages:
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490