She was watching the moon rise, too.
The scene I had so recently witnessed from the buttonwood-tree had made
me desperate. I felt that now, if ever, I must speak. Seizing my hat, I
walked rapidly to the spot, hoping it would be given me in that hour
what to say.
After we had talked awhile about the moon, how it looked, rising over
the waters, as we saw it, and rising over the mountains, as she had seen
it, I turned my face rather aside, and said, quite suddenly,--
"Mary Ellen, I want to speak to you about something important. I hope
you will take it kindly."
She made no answer; seemed startled. I hardly know how I stumbled along,
but I finally found myself speaking of my friendship for David, and of
my aversion to Warren Luce. She appeared not at all displeased, but said
very little. This was not as I expected. I thought she might answer
carelessly,--lightly.
There came a pause. I couldn't seem to get on. She safe with averted
face, her arm on the fence, her head in her hand. In the strong light of
the moon, every feature was revealed. How beautiful she was in the
moonlight! But what was her face saying? A good deal, certainly; but
what?
I stood leaning against the fence.
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