As soon as I could control my voice I said, "I cannot tell you why I cry so bitterly. I felt so strangely when I read this terrible letter, which Matthias had picked up in the road and given to me. Instead of sorrow covering me, as would seem natural, sorrow for another, not myself, I said, 'thank God,' for it seemed as if I had looked at something that would lead me from darkness to light. I have been so miserable, Louis; Mr. Benton has tormented me so long, that I have been filled with despair, and I begin to believe I shall never be worth anything again; oh! I am grieving so, and yet feel such a strange joy;" and I shook as if with ague.

Louis looked as if wonder-struck, and holding both my hands in one of his, drew my head to his shoulder, and with his arm still round me, put his hand on my forehead.

"Your head is like fire, Emily; the first thing is for you to get quiet; a terrible mistake has been made, and we may give thanks for the help that has strangely come."

I knew it would appear but did not know how. I still grieved and sighed and was trying hard to control myself.

"Emily," said Louis, in a tone of gentle authority, "do not try to hold on to yourself so; just place more confidence in my strength and I will help your nerves to help themselves, for you see these nerves you are trying to force into quiet, are only disturbed by your will. Let the rein fall loosely, it will soon be gathered up, for when you are quiet you will be strong, and the harder you pull the more troubled you will be. You must lean on me, Emily, from this day on as far as our earthly lives shall go—you are mine. It is blessed to claim you."

I tried to do as he said, and after a little, the strength he gave crept over me like a tide that bore me up at last; my grieving nerves were still, but my face was pale, as he said again:

"Now, Emily, let me hear from your own lips, 'I love you, Louis,'" and his dark eyes turned to meet my own, which were filled with tears that were not bitter—holy tears that welled from the fountain of my tired and grateful heart.

"I do love you, Louis—and Louis," I cried, forgetting again, impetuously, "I thought you had forgotten. I have suffered so long and you did not know it, and I dared not tell."

"Emily should have done it, but never mind, you say you love me, and shall it be as I desire? will you be my wife, Emily?"

I bowed my head and he continued:

"Thank you, Emily, and I do hope that listening angels hear and know it all. Their love shall sanction ours, and we will do all we can for each other, and also for those who unlike us see not the love, the comfort, and the faith they need. Now you shall be my Emily,—you are christened; this is your royal title,—my Emily through all the years."

Oh, how glad I felt! From the depths of my spirit rose so strong and full the tide of feeling that told me one love was perfect, and it cast out fear.

I said: "Louis, let us wait. Do not look at the dreadful letter now, it will mar this pleasant picture which rests me so, and I have been tired too long. I hope I may never again have to say to myself, 'Emily did it,' or its companion sentence, 'Poor Emily did not do it.' Let me breathe a little first, for I shall be again wrought up."

"Perhaps not," said Louis.

"Oh! I must be, it cannot be avoided, there is a dark passage through which we must pass, but if we go together it will not be so hard."

"As you say, my Emily," and at that moment Clara entered.

"Come in, little mother," said Louis, "come in and seal my title for your royal cousin with a motherly kiss, for she has promised to be my wife—my Emily through time."

And she glided toward us, kissed my forehead tenderly, and then taking a hand of each in one of hers, she turned her eyes upward and said:

"Father, bless my children; they were made for each other. May their lives and love continue, ever as thine, through endless time. Let our hearts be united and thy will be ours," and she knelt on the floor at our feet, her head resting in my lap, and her hand in Louis', whose face was radiant with the thoughts which sought expression in his features. I marvelled, as I looked on his beauty, that plain Emily Minot could have become so dear to him.

The thought of father's fear, too, came over me, and while we were thus in thoughtful silence, the old corner clock gave warning of the supper hour being near, and I said:

"The supper I must see to, Louis."

He smiled and said:

"My Emily can get supper, I know, for she makes both bread and butter, and is loyal to her calling ever, as to her lover."

Mr. Benton looked sharply at me during the meal, and it seemed to me as if my eyes betrayed the thought which, filled my heart. Aunt Hildy had returned from her errand of mercy, and she said it was "nervous rheumatiz."

"Poor creature, she's broke down with her hard work."

"Perhaps she'll marry that old fellow, Mat Jones," said Mr. Benton. "He'd make a good husband if she isn't too particular," and he laughed as if he thought his remark suggestive of great cunning. No one gave it even a smile. He did not like Matthias, and often spoke slurringly of him. This was strange, for I could see no harm coming to him from this harmless soul who was good and true and faithful as the sun. He was to us the very help we needed, and father could entrust the care of his work to him whenever he desired to rest a day, or it was necessary for him to be absent from home. This was no small consideration, and well appreciated by those who knew what the care and work of life on a farm meant. Mr. Benton's remark called forth from Louis after a time one concerning the great evil of slavery.

"And if we suffer from any error this race commit, we must remember it is our own people who have brought it to us," said he. "Africa never would have come to us."

Mr. Benton, apparently nettled, said:

"I imagine you would not enjoy a drove of these people in your care. I had a little taste of the South during two years of my life, and my word for it, Louis, they are not attractive creatures to be tormented with. They are a perfect set of stubborn stupidities, and driving is the only thing to suit them, depend on it."

Louis looked more than he said, only recalling that the blame for this could not rest on the slave alone. "I do not imagine I could enjoy slave-owning. I feel the majority of slave-owners lower themselves until they stand beneath the level of the brutes."

Father said, "It is all wrong."

Aunt Hildy added, "All kind of bondage is ungodly, and the days will bring some folks to knowledge."

"Out of the depth into the light," said Clara, and our meal was over.

The days flew by on wings, each wing a promise, and it was a week after we plighted our vows ere I felt ready to read that letter and hear what Louis had to say. Then something came to prevent, and another week had passed when Louis said:

"My Emily, I must have a talk with your father and mother. I cannot feel quite satisfied, and it is only right they should be consulted, for you are their own good girl. I would wait for their hearts to say, 'take her,' if I waited years, but then, my Emily, it is neither giving nor taking, for every change that is right does not ask us ever to give ourselves or our loved ones away. I dislike that term."

"You may wait, Louis; I will tell mother, and she can tell father."

"No, no, Emily! It is I who ask for your hand, and is it not my privilege as well as duty?"

"What a strange man you are growing to be, Louis! Hal couldn't bear the thought of telling mother or father his heart affairs, and I was the medium of communication between them."

"He feels differently about it," said Louis, "and yet he has the tenderest heart I ever knew within the breast of a man."

"He is a good brother, Louis. I could not ask a better."

"Nor find one if you did."

At that moment Matthias came in. Taking off his hat and saluting us in his accustomed way, he said:

"'Pears like I'll have to ask some of yere to go out in de woods a piece—thar's a queer looking gal out thar, an' she's mighty nigh froze to death; she is, sartin."

"Where is she, Matthias?"

"Clean over thar; quite a piece, miss."

"Near any house?" I said.

"Wall, miss, she mout be two or three good steps from that thar brick-colored house."

"Oh, clear over there? Well," I said, "I'll go over if Lou Desmonde will go with me."

"I will go, only never call me that again. Matthias calls me Mas'r Louis, and he says I remind him of a mighty nice fellow down in South Carliny," said Louis.

"Yis, sah, you does," said Matthias.

Telling mother and Aunt Hildy what we were going out to find, we started.

It was a very cold day, and through our warm clothing the winds of March pierced the marrow of our bones. We found the woman, who proved to be, as Matthias had said, nearly frozen. Louis took her right in his arms to the nearest shelter, Mr. Goodwin's, the brick-colored house, and his good, motherly wife had her put into the large west-room, where the spare bed was made so temptingly clean, and with such an airy feather mattress, that, light as she was, the poor girl sank into it almost out of sight. Matthias brought wood and made a fire on the hearth, and Mrs. Goodwin, Louis and I worked hard for an hour chafing her purple limbs, her swelled feet and hands, and at last she turned her head uneasily, and murmured:

"The baby's dead—she is dead and I am going to her."

Then a few words of home and some pictures.

"Myself! myself!" she'd cry, "my picture; yes, my hair is beautiful; my golden curls, he said; and my baby's hair; let me put it here."

And she passed into a sleep from which it would seem she could never waken. We sent Matthias back to tell mother, and say that we should both stay all night if necessary. This girl could not be more than twenty, we thought. Her fingers were small and tapering, and on her right hand she wore a ring set with several diamond stones. Her dress was of silk, and her shawl fine but thin. Her head covering had doubtless fallen off and then been carried by the wind, for we saw nothing of it. She was a beautiful picture as she lay there, for the blood had started and her cheeks were flushed with fever, her lips parted, showing a set of teeth, small, white and regular. Who could she be? Where did she come from? It was about an hour after she fell asleep that she stirred, wakened, and this time opened her eyes in which a conscious light was gathering.

"Where am I? What is it?"

Mrs. Goodwin stepped near her, Louis retreated from the room, and I kept my seat by the hearth.

"Dead, dead, I was dying but I am not dead; do tell me," she said, putting both her hands out to Mrs. Goodwin.

"You are sick, my child. We found you in the road and took you in. You had lost your way."

"Oh! oh!" she murmured, "can I stay all night?"

"Oh, yes, stay a week or two, and get rested!"

"May I go to sleep again? Who knows me here?" and again she fell asleep. By this time Aunt Hildy appeared on the scene, and commanded me to go home and stay there.

"'Tain't no place for you; I've brought my herbs to stay and doctor her. You go home and help your mother." I obeyed, of course, and when I left, kissed the white forehead of the poor girl, and sealed it with a tear that fell.

She murmured: "Yes, all for love,—home, pictures, mother,—all left for love, and the baby's dead. I'm going there."

I went out into the crisp air with Louis' arm for support, and a thousand strange thoughts whirling in my brain. "Great, indeed, must have been the sorrow which could have driven so tender a plant from home."

"Yes," said Louis, "God pity the man whose ruthless hand has killed the blossoms of her loving heart. She looks like little mother, Emily."

"So she does, Louis." And we talked earnestly, forgetting everything but this strange, sweet face. Supper was ready, and the rest were at the table.

"What have you been up to?" said Ben, "you look like two tombstones." I related briefly the history, and concluded by saying:

"She looks as frail as a flower." To which Mr. Benton added:

"Doubtless her frailty, Miss Minot, is the cause of her present suffering."

"Poor lamb," said Clara, "how thankful we should feel that Matthias found her."

"Yes," said Louis, "and if he only could have thought to have carried her into Mr. Goodwin's, and then come over after us, she would not have so hard a struggle for life."

"Do you think she can live?" said Mr. Benton.

"Oh, yes!" said Louis, "the blood has started, and with Aunt Hildy by her bedside she will be, by to-morrow, very comfortable. I think she had not been there long when we found her."

"Perhaps she will not thank you for bringing her back to life, however."

"Perhaps not," said Louis, "still it seems a sacred duty, and in my opinion, not finished with her mere return to life. She looks very beautiful—looks like little mother," turning in admiration to Clara, whose eyes reflected the love she held in her heart for him.

Father and mother were silent, but after supper mother said they would ride over and see if anything was necessary to be done that they could attend to. My mother was too silent and too pale through these days. I looked at the prospect of less work for her with pleasure, and after Mr. Benton left there certainly would be less. Louis would have Hal's room, and Clara then would see to their apartments almost entirely. This would be a relief, and now that my mind was at ease, I knew I could be of more service, while Aunt Hildy would still remain, for she said she would make "Mis' Minot's burden as easy as she could, while the Lord gave her strength to do it."

After father and mother were gone, Louis sat with me in our sitting-room, while Clara absented herself on the plea of something very particular to attend to. I mistrusted what it might be, and looked at her smilingly. "My Emily guesses it," she said, "something for the little lamb. Emily will help me too, have I not said it?" and she passed like a sweet breath from the room.

"Now Louis," I said, as we sat together on the old sofa,—our old-fashioned people called it "soffy,"—"let us look at that letter."

He produced it from the pocket where it had lain in waiting, and we read. Many lines were illegible entirely, but together we deciphered much of it. "The baby is dead—she was beautiful, and if (here were two words we could not make out), it would have been so nice (then two lines blurred and indistinct, and another broken sentence). Where can your letters —— I am sure you write. If —— then I shall go to find ——. My father will give us ——" and from all these grief-laden sentences, we gathered a story that struck us both as being almost made to coincide with that of the poor lamb.

"Louis," I said, "if this is the very Mary, what shall we do?"

"We will do right and let problems be solved as best they can. First let us understand about ourselves, then we can better act for others. How did Mr. Benton annoy you?"

Then I told him.

"And you did not even think you loved him?"

"Louis," I cried, "how could you think so, when my heart has been yours always? How could you think of me in that light?" And those old tears came into my eyes.

"I could not convince myself that such was the case, but Wilmur Benton gave me so to understand—said you were a coy damsel but a glorious girl, and would make a splendid wife—'just such as I need,' he said, 'congratulate me.'

"When, Louis, did he say this?"

"The night of our walk; and it was this instead of the picture he talked of."

"You were cruel not to tell me," I said.

"I waited for my year to finish as I had said I would, and then, Emily, I waited longer for fear you did not know your heart. Matthias said to me one day, 'Masr' Louis, dat man neber can gain de day ober thar; Miss Emily done gone clar off de books, an he's such a bother—um—um.' This set me to thinking; I asked him how he came to think so. 'Dunno, can't help it, 'pears like dat gal's eyes tell me 'nuf.' All this was good to hear, and I had watched you very closely for days, thinking every morning, 'I will tell her before night;' and several times went into Hal's room purposely, but Mr. Benton was always before me. It was because you felt all this that the letter made you feel truly an opening path—your tearful talk by the old apple tree was the 'sesame' that opened the way to the light."

"I do not like to feel that man is such a character as all these things indicate," I said, adding dreamily, "but I never came very near to him. He is a splendid artist, and still the canvas does not speak of his soul."

"How utterly void of feeling for those in bondage he seems to be! What a cold crust covers him! Emily."

"It hurts me to think you could for a moment believe I preferred him to you."

"You must not for a moment believe that in my soul I did, for it is not true; but I knew your artless, loving heart, and I knew also Mr. Benton had the power to polish sentences of flattery that might for a little dazzle you, as it were."

"And they did sometimes, Louis," I said, for I wanted the whole truth to be made plain, while I felt his glittering eyes fastened on me, "but not long. When I was alone, I saw your face and longed to hear again the words you had said to me. We are both young, Louis, and I feared you did not love me as you thought. I had no right to defend myself against Mr. Benton's attacks by using your name with my own. And when the year was past, then I still felt no right, and further," I added slowly, "to me my love was a sacred picture I could not ask him to look at."

"My Emily forever," said Louis, folding me closely to him. "Your fears were groundless as to the changing of my love for you, but, as you say, the picture was not for his eyes. Your suffering causes me sorrow, but let us hope it has not been in vain."

"It is all right, Louis, now, and I have said to myself, let 'Emily will do it' be the words hereafter, for 'Emily did it' has passed, and with this lesson, too, I hope, the second sin of omission, which in my heart I characterize as 'Emily did not do it.' And now your little mother's words lie just before me, reaching a long way through the years, 'Emily will do it.'"

"Amen," said a sweet voice, which was Clara's. "Emily has begun, and when she goes to see the little lamb here are some things to take."

"Do you want to see her, little mother?"

"Not now, Louis; I cannot now look upon her sorrow. By-and-by," and over her face came a shining mist, and through sweet sympathy's pure tears her eyes looked earnestly, but she did not tell us of what she was thinking.