The Argosy — page 41: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

28 A Girl's Folly. Mr. Watkyn, was steeling her heart against it and against him who was coming to hold it with her. She had changed her frock to-day, and wore a fresh, bright coloured muslin, blue ribbons at the neck. and wrists, and a blue knot in her hair. She waited impatiently ; she wanted the interview over and done with, that she might be off to keep that other with Mr. Vavasour. But Thomas was late. Pacing the garden-path in the rays of the fading sun, she stood looking over the little iron entrance gate, her blue eyes roving hither and thither in search of one whom she could not yet see. Uncon- sclously she broke out into the verse of a homely song. ‘Oh dear, what can the matter be, Dear, dear, what can the matter be, Oh dear, what can the matter be, Johnny’s so long at the fair ! He promised to buy me a bunch of sweet posies, A bunch of green mosses, a bunch of pink roses, He promised to bring me a knot of blue ribbons To tie up my bonny brown hair.”’ The hum of the last words was dying away on the air when the well-known form of Thomas Watkyn came into view. He wore his usual dark-blue evening frock coat and quiet waistcoat: he dressed well always when his day’s work was over, but not in the fashionable attire of fashionable Mr. Vavasour. ‘Good evening, Alison,” he said, as he reached the gate. ‘* What a lovely evening it is!” Removing his hat, he gazed up at the sapphire sky, action and countenance alike full of reverence: and Alison, who had not been taking any particular notice before, looked around her, her face softening at the splendour of nature’s glory. ‘‘What a glorious sunset!” he continued, his voice taking a hushed tone. ‘Glorious, glorious !” ‘““How solemnly you speak, Thomas!” ‘“T am feeling solemn. I have been feeling so ever since I came out; but I don’t know why. Unless it is that heavenly scene that’s making me so.” “Tt is very grand,” she said, fixing her eyes on the bank of golden clouds in the western sky, where the sun was just slipping down behind the purple hill-tops in the distance, like a ball of ruby flame. Tiny bits of foam-like clouds flecked the limpid blue of the heavens, a warm, golden glow gilded the earth, freshened and vivified with a past shower. The musical twitter of birds going to their rest filled the woodlands; and, as Alison looked, a strange feeling of awe stole into her heart, for the glory that lay around seemed more than earthly. “There are moments,” he said, in a dreamy manner, “when I ECORMIEDIOOKS.eC© im