Burt was no
hero in her eyes, but he was immensely companionable, and it was a
companion, not a hero, or a man remote from her life and interests, that
she desired. He was refined and intelligent, if not learned; low, mean
traits were conspicuously absent; but, above and beyond all, his mirthful
blue eyes, and spirited ways and words, set all her nerves tingling with
a delicious exhilaration which she could neither analyze nor control. In
brief, the time that her father foresaw had come; the man had appeared
who could do more than amuse; her whole nature had made its choice. She
could go back to the city, and still in semblance be the beautiful and
brilliant girl that she had been; but she knew that in all the future few
waking hours would pass without her thoughts reverting to that little
mountain terrace, its gleaming canvas, its gypsy-like fire, with a tall,
lithe form often reclining at her feet beside it.
Would the future bring more than regretful memories? As time passed, she
feared not.
As Burt grew conscious of himself, his pride was deeply touched. He knew
that he had been greatly fascinated by Miss Hargrove, and, what was
worse, her power had not declined after he had awakened to his danger;
but he felt that Amy and all the family would despise him--indeed, that
he would despise himself--should he so speedily transfer his allegiance;
and under the spur of this dread he made especial, though very
unobtrusive, efforts to prove his loyalty to Amy.
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