tears, with a look of mingled kindness and sorrow.
“Why these tears, my Mimili? Speak! May I not know the cause?”
“You would not understand me,” answered she, after a considerable pause, with downcast look. Her full heart now overflowed, and she sobbed aloud.
“Dearest Mimili! what ails you? Tell me, I beseech you.”
“You would not understand me,” repeated she, “and I have nobody to whom I can tell it. This,” pointing to the pianoforte, “knows my sorrows, and has answered me.”
“Don’t laugh at me, sir,” she proceeded, after a short pause; “I am a girl—a silly girl, that have my dreams. Now I have had my cry out, I shall be easier.”
I partly understood her, for I was not vain enough to comprehend her whole meaning. She went up to her room, to wash her eyes with fresh spring-water, lest her father might observe that she had been weeping; while I, overpowered with rapture, began to have a glimpse of the bliss that awaited me.
“Mimili mine!” These two words comprised the sum and substance of my earthly felicity. No sooner were these two words associated together in the recesses of my soul—for as yet they had not escaped my lips—than I made up
