She followed his advice, and rambled about for a long time, but neither her flowers nor the beauties of nature could fix her attention—her thoughts ran on an absent one; she had suffered herself to be persuaded that Harry would surely come, immediately after receiving her letter—and she had been looking for him for some hours. If the wind moved the branches—she started, or a bird flew rustling through the leaves, as if their accustomed sounds were the harbingers of coming footsteps. She was unwilling to acknowledge, even to herself, the disappointment that weighed upon her spirits; but not finding in her walk the exhilarating influence she anticipated, she was turning her steps homeward, when a sudden crashing among the boughs interrupted her progress, and the object of her thoughts bounded into the path, his face glowing with the rapidity of his motions; her eyes flashed with their wonted joy, and forgetting every thing but the delight she felt in meeting him, with a sudden impulse she rushed forward and threw herself into his out-stretched arms. “I feared that I might be forgotten,” exclaimed he, tenderly; “but I see I have wronged you.” “I could never forget you, Harry,” was the whispered reply. “But why did you write that terrible letter, Mary? Anguish pierced my heart when I read its contents. Oh! if you had ever felt the torture of jealousy, you would have spared me that.” A thrill of delight penetrated Mary’s heart; now she was convinced that she was beloved as well as ever. “Have I no cause to reproach you?” asked she, looking up into his face as if she would read his very soul. “If I deserve upbraiding from you, I am totally unconscious; but tell me, dear Mary, how have I offended?” “Rumor has been busy spreading reports that you have been addressing another; and it says that you did not address her in vain. But now, Harry, I do not believe one word of what I have been told.” “But you have doubted me, Mary,” said he, mournfully. “There is but one sun in heaven—there is but one Mary to my eyes on earth!” “Forgive me, Harry? Mrs. Webster confirmed all these reports when she returned.” “Mrs. Webster is not my friend, Mary; and I suspect all those reports have come from her. I have long known her disregard of truth, as well as her design on you.” “I now begin to penetrate a plot, and believe her to be the inventor of all the base charges against you. Alas! the inborn wickedness of the human heart.” “Now, tell me of the letter, Mary, that aroused me, for a time, from the sweetest and brightest dream that ever gladdened the heart of man?” “Oh!” said she, laughing, “my very dear friend was no other than Uncle Pluribusi.” “Then you have been romancing a little, to be revenged on me?” inquired he, archly. “I believe I must plead guilty.” “I am impatient to meet my fascinating rival, that we may enjoy together a hearty laugh over our ‘Comedy of Errors.’”