“You know the result. At the report of the last gun in that conflict, as at the blast of the Israelite trumpets before Jericho, the walls of British invincibility fell—like them, too, never to rise again. But, dearest, I tire you.” “No, Edward, I love to listen to you. When I first read of that victory I wept for joy. Now, although it is past, I tremble, while I rejoice, at the danger you incurred; but tell me, did you escape unhurt?” “I received a flesh wound merely, but it proved irritable and difficult of cure. In consequence, I was prevented from again sailing in the ship; but my promotion was secured, and I congratulate myself on my present position. The ship to which I am attached is smaller than the Constitution, but she is well-manned and ably commanded. There is no telling at what moment she may meet with an opponent; and you, dearest, would not have me absent while my shipmates are battling for our country.” “No, Edward, I will not be less patriotic than yourself; but we have so shortly known and understood each other, that it is hard to separate so soon, and when there is so much danger that we may never meet again; beside, your impatience retards your recovery.” “Fear not, Mary, the fever has entirely left me, and my strength increases daily—thanks to your gentle nurture, for, unseen, though hovering near, you not only supplied my wants but anticipated every wish.” “Speak of it no more, Edward; see, Alfred is coming to call us to breakfast. I will take the path through the shrubbery and avoid him, or he will have his jest at our expense when we meet at table.” Springing from her lover’s side as she spoke, she lingered for an instant as she gained the copse, and turned with a fond, confiding glance toward him, but the sound of her brother’s footsteps checked the current of her feelings, and she was out of sight in an instant. Edward Talbot was in his 22d year. With a fine figure, his frame indicated more activity than strength. His hazel eye, undimmed by recent illness, expressed decision of character, and his dark hair fell in untrimmed luxuriance over his pale but manly features. Mary Gillespie was eighteen, and almost a woman. About the medium stature of her sex, her light, elastic figure moved in unconscious grace. Her silk-like chestnut hair shaded a neck of snowy whiteness; her brilliant cheek, now white as a lily, now mantled with a blush, more surely and more rapidly than words bespoke the current of her feelings; while her deep-blue eyes, bathed in liquid crystal, and curtained from the sight by their long and fringing lashes, rarely raised and as suddenly withdrawn, struck the beholder with wonder and admiration. Beautiful in person, sensitive in her feelings, and of a most confiding and affectionate nature, she was a being formed for love.