tly, distinctly, without
hurry or embarrassment, in the neatest, prettiest, most admirable
speech I ever heard, she told everything just as it was. Bravo for
Miriam! There lives not the woman in this State who could do so painful
a thing in such a beautiful way. I felt like hugging her. Oh, it was
magnificent! He heard her in surprise, but when once satisfied of its
truth, he said, "Well, Miss Morgan, when you stand on the floor, when I
ask if you will, it is your privilege to answer, 'No.'" Miriam is not
one to do so cruel a thing; she is too noble to deceive him so far and
wound him so cruelly before all, when he believed himself so near
happiness. She said that it was mockery, she would not suffer him to
believe for an instant that she meant to marry him; if he believed it,
he was deceiving himself wilfully, for he already knew that she had
told him it could never be. He agreed to take it only as a jest,
promised that he would not feel hurt; and with the most admirable tact,
Miriam, the trump (I have been playing euchre, excuse me), settled the
minister, and the wedding, by her splendid behavior, with no trouble.

A rapid step was heard in the hall; the bridegroom had come! I know he
must have killed his horse. He certainly did not leave his house before
one o'clock; it is twenty miles by the road to Clinton; he went there,
procured his license, and was here at seven, in full costume. He
bounded upstairs to meet the bride-elect.

I can fancy him going to Clinton, doubting, fearing, believing against
all evidence, yet trembling; securing the license at last, persuading
himself that she would not dare refuse when the deeds were recorded in
court, and he held them in his hand;--and very few women would have
been brave enough, too; he did not know My Miriam! I can fancy the poor
horse lashed through the heavy mire, tired, foaming, panting, while his
strong arm urged it on, with whip and spur; I can hear the exulting
beating of his heart, that wild refrain that was raging as his
death-knell--"Mine! Mine at last!" I could hear it, I say. It rung in
my ears all night. He held her in his power; she must be his; hastily,
yet carefully he performs his toilet; I dare say he stopped to think
which cravat she liked best. "Mine! Mine!" the song is ringing in every
stroke of his throbbing breast. Mount! Mount! Two miles fly past. He
sweeps through the moonlight like Death riding on a pale horse; yonder
shine lights in the parlor;