AmÉlie, by accident or by contrivance of her fair companions,—girls are so wily and sympathetic with each other,—had been left seated by the side of Philibert, on the twisted roots of a gigantic oak forming a rude but simple chair fit to enthrone the king of the forest and his dryad queen. No sound came to break the quiet of the evening hour save the monotonous plaint of a whippoorwill in a distant brake, and the ceaseless chirm of insects among the leafy boughs and down in the ferns that clustered on the knolls round about.

Philibert let fall upon his knee the book which he had been reading. His voice faltered, he could not continue without emotion the touching tale of Paolo and Francesca da Rimini. AmÉlie's eyes were suffused with tears of pity, for her heart had beat time to the music of Dante's immortal verse as it dropped in measured cadence from the lips of Philibert.

She had read the pathetic story before, but never comprehended until now the weakness which is the strength of love. Oh, blessed paradox of a woman's heart! And how truly the Commedia, which is justly called Divine, unlocks the secret chambers of the human soul.

“Read no more, Pierre,” said she, “that book is too terrible in its beauty and in its sadness! I think it was written by a disembodied spirit who had seen all worlds, knew all hearts, and shared in all sufferings. It sounds to me like the sad voice of a prophet of woe.”

“AmÉlie,” replied he, “believe you there are women faithful and true as Francesca da Rimini? She would not forsake Paolo even in the gloomy regions of despair. Believe you that there are such women?”

AmÉlie looked at him with a quick, confident glance. A deep flush covered her cheek, and her breath went and came rapidly; she knew what to answer, but she thought it might seem overbold to answer such a question. A second thought decided her, however. Pierre Philibert would ask her no question to which she might not answer, she said to herself.

AmÉlie replied to him slowly, but undoubtingly: “I think there are such women, Pierre,” replied she, “women who would never, even in the regions of despair, forsake the man whom they truly love, no, not for all the terrors recorded in that awful book of Dante!”

“It is a blessed truth, AmÉlie,” replied he, eagerly; and he thought, but did not say it, “Such a woman you are; the man who gets your love gets that which neither earth nor heaven nor hell can take away.”

He continued aloud, “The love of such a woman is truly given away, AmÉlie; no one can merit it! It is a woman's grace, not man's deserving.”

“I know not,” said she; “it is not hard to give away God's gifts: love should be given freely as God gives it to us. It has no value except as the bounty of the heart, and looks for no reward but in its own acceptance.”

“AmÉlie!” exclaimed he, passionately, turning full towards her; but her eyes remained fixed upon the ground. “The gift of such a woman's love has been the dream, the ambition of my life! I may never find it, or having found it may never be worthy of it; and yet I must find it or die! I must find it where alone I seek it—there or nowhere! Can you help me for friendship's sake—for love's sake, AmÉlie de Repentigny, to find that one treasure that is precious as life, which is life itself to the heart of Pierre Philibert?”

He took hold of her passive hands. They trembled in his, but she offered not to withdraw them. Indeed, she hardly noticed the act in the tide of emotion which was surging in her bosom. Her heart moved with a wild yearning to tell him that he had found the treasure he sought,—that a love as strong and as devoted as that of Francesca da Rimini was her own free gift to him.

She tried to answer him, but could not. Her hand still remained fast locked in his. He held to it as a drowning man holds to the hand that is stretched to save him.

Philibert knew at that moment that the hour of his fate was come. He would never let go that hand again till he called it his own, or received from it a sign to be gone forever from the presence of AmÉlie de Repentigny.

The soft twilight grew deeper and deeper every moment, changing the rosy hues of the west into a pale ashen gray, over which hung the lamp of love,—the evening star, which shines so brightly and sets so soon,—and ever the sooner as it hastens to become again the morning star of a brighter day.

The shadow of the broad, spreading tree fell darker round the rustic seat where sat these two—as myriads have sat before and since, working out the problems of their lives, and beginning to comprehend each other, as they await with a thrill of anticipation the moment of mutual confidence and fond confession.

Pierre Philibert sat some minutes without speaking. He could have sat so forever, gazing with rapture upon her half-averted countenance, which beamed with such a divine beauty, all aglow with the happy consciousness of his ardent admiration, that it seemed the face of a seraph; and in his heart, if not on his knees, he bent in worship, almost idolatrous, at her feet.

And yet he trembled, this strong man who had faced death in every form but this! He trembled by the side of this gentle girl,—but it was for joy, not for fear. Perfect love casts out fear, and he had no fear now for AmÉlie's love, although she had not yet dared to look at him. But her little hand lay unreprovingly in his,—nestling like a timid bird which loved to be there, and sought not to escape. He pressed it gently to his heart; he felt by its magnetic touch, by that dumb alphabet of love, more eloquent than spoken words, that he had won the heart of AmÉlie de Repentigny.

“Pierre,” said she,—she wanted to say it was time to rejoin their companions, but the words would not come. Her face was still half-averted, and suffused with an unseen blush, as she felt his strong arm round her; and his breath, how sweet it seemed, fanning her cheek. She had no power, no will to resist him, as he drew her close, still closer to his heart.

She trembled, but was happy. No eye saw but God's through the blessed twilight; and “God will not reprove Pierre Philibert for loving me,” thought she, “and why should I?” She tried, or simulated, an attempt at soft reproof, as a woman will who fears she may be thought too fond and too easily won, at the very moment she is ready to fall down and kiss the feet of the man before her.

“Pierre,” said she, “it is time we rejoin our companions; they will remark our absence. We will go.”

But she still sat there, and made no effort to go. A gossamer thread could have held her there forever, and how could she put aside the strong arm that was mightier than her own will?

Pierre spoke now; the feelings so long pent up burst forth in a torrent that swept away every bond of restraint but that of love's own laws.

He placed his hand tenderly on her cheek, and turned her glowing face full towards him. Still she dared not look up. She knew well what he was going to say. She might control her words, but not her tell-tale eyes. She felt a wild joy flashing and leaping in her bosom, which no art could conceal, should she look up at this moment in the face of Pierre Philibert.

“AmÉlie,” said he, after a pause, “turn those dear eyes, and see and believe in the truth of mine! No words can express how much I do love you!”

She gave a start of joy,—not of surprise, for she knew he loved her. But the avowal of Pierre Philibert's love lifted at once the veil from her own feelings. She raised her dark, impassioned eyes to his, and their souls met and embraced in one look both of recognition and bliss. She spake not, but unconsciously nestled closer to his breast, faltering out some inarticulate words of tenderness.

“AmÉlie,” continued he, straining her still harder to his heart, “your love is all I ask of Heaven and of you. Give me that. I must have it, or live henceforth a man forlorn in the wide world. Oh, say, darling, can you, do you care for me?”

“Yes, indeed I do!” replied she, laying her arm over his neck, as if drawing him towards her with a timid movement, while he stooped and kissed her sweet mouth and eyes in an ecstasy of passionate joy. She abandoned herself for a moment to her excess of bliss. “Kiss me, darling!” said he; and she kissed him more than once, to express her own great love and assure him that it was all his own.

They sat in silence for some minutes; her cheek lay upon his, as she breathed his name with many fond, faltering expressions of tenderness.

He felt her tears upon his face. “You weep, AmÉlie,” said he, starting up and looking at her cheeks and eyes suffused with moisture.

“I do,” said she, “but it is for joy! Oh, Pierre Philibert, I am so happy! Let me weep now; I will laugh soon. Forgive me if I have confessed too readily how much I love you.”

“Forgive you! 'tis I need forgiveness; impetuous that I am to have forced this confession from you to-night. Those blessed words, 'Yes, indeed I do,'—God's finger has written them on my heart forever. Never will I forsake the dear lips which spake them, nor fail in all loving duty and affection to you, my AmÉlie, to the end of my life.”

“Of both our lives, Pierre,” replied she; “I can imagine no life, only death, separated from you. In thought you have always been with me from the beginning; my life and yours are henceforth one.”

He gave a start of joy, “And you loved me before, AmÉlie!” exclaimed he.

“Ever and always; but irrevocably since that day of terror and joy when you saved the life of Le Gardeur, and I vowed to pray for you to the end of my life.”

“And during these long years in the Convent, AmÉlie,—when we seemed utterly forgotten to each other?”

“You were not forgotten by me, Pierre! I prayed for you then,—earnest prayers for your safety and happiness, never hoping for more; least of all anticipating such a moment of bliss as the present. Oh, my Pierre, do not think me bold! You give me the right to love you without shame by the avowal of your love to me.”

“AmÉlie!” exclaimed he, kissing her in an ecstasy of joy and admiration, “what have I done—what can I ever do, to merit or recompense such condescension as your dear words express?”

“Love me, Pierre! Always love me! That is my reward. That is all I ask, all my utmost imagination could desire.”

“And this little hand, AmÉlie, will be forever mine?”

“Forever, Pierre, and the heart along with it.”

He raised her hand reverently to his lips and kissed it. “Let it not be long,” said he. “Life is too short to curtail one hour of happiness from the years full of trouble which are most men's lot.”

“But not our lot, Pierre; not ours. With you I forbode no more trouble in this life, and eternal joy in the next.”

She looked at him, and her eyes seemed to dilate with joy. Her hand crept timidly up to his thick locks; she fondly brushed them aside from his broad forehead, which she pressed down to her lips and kissed.

“Tell my aunt and Le Gardeur when we return home,” continued she. “They love you, and will be glad—nay, overjoyed, to know that I am to be your—your—”

“My wife!—-AmÉlie, thrice blessed words! Oh, say my wife!”

“Yes, your wife, Pierre! Your true and loving wife forever.”

“Forever! Yes. Love like ours is imperishable as the essence of the soul itself, and partakes of the immortality of God, being of him and from him. The Lady de Tilly shall find me a worthy son, and Le Gardeur a true and faithful brother.”

“And you, Pierre! Oh, say it; that blessed word has not sounded yet in my ear—what shall I call you?” And she looked in his eyes, drawing his soul from its inmost depths by the magnetism of her look.

“Your husband,—your true and loving husband, as you are my wife, AmÉlie.”

“God be praised!” murmured she in his ear. “Yes, my HUSBAND! The blessed Virgin has heard my prayers.” And she pressed him in a fond embrace, while tears of joy flowed from her eyes. “I am indeed happy!”

The words hardly left her lips when a sudden crash of thunder rolled over their heads and went pealing down the lake and among the islands, while a black cloud suddenly eclipsed the moon, shedding darkness over the landscape, which had just begun to brighten in her silvery rays.

AmÉlie was startled, frightened, clinging hard to the breast of Pierre, as her natural protector. She trembled and shook as the angry reverberations rolled away in the distant forests. “Oh, Pierre!” exclaimed she, “what is that? It is as if a dreadful voice came between us, forbidding our union! But nothing shall ever do that now, shall it? Oh, my love!”

“Nothing, AmÉlie. Be comforted,” replied he. “It is but a thunder-storm coming up. It will send Le Gardeur and all our gay companions quickly back to us, and we shall return home an hour sooner, that is all. Heaven cannot frown on our union, darling.”

“I should love you all the same, Pierre,” whispered she. AmÉlie was not hard to persuade; she was neither weak nor superstitious beyond her age and sex. But she had not much time to indulge in alarms.

In a few minutes the sound of voices was heard; the dip and splash of hasty paddles followed, and the fleet of canoes came rushing into shore like a flock of water-fowl seeking shelter in bay or inlet from a storm.

There was a hasty preparation on all sides for departure. The camp-fires were trampled out lest they should kindle a conflagration in the forest. The baskets were tossed into one of the large canoes. Philibert and AmÉlie embarked in that of Le Gardeur, not without many arch smiles and pretended regrets on the part of some of the young ladies for having left them on their last round of the lake.

The clouds kept gathering in the south, and there was no time for parley. The canoes were headed down the stream, the paddles were plied vigorously: it was a race to keep ahead of the coming storm, and they did not quite win it.

The black clouds came rolling over the horizon in still blacker masses, lower and lower, lashing the very earth with their angry skirts, which were rent and split with vivid flashes of lightning. The rising wind almost overpowered with its roaring the thunder that pealed momentarily nearer and nearer. The rain came down in broad, heavy splashes, followed by a fierce, pitiless hail, as if Heaven's anger was pursuing them.

AmÉlie clung to Philibert. She thought of Francesca da Rimini clinging to Paolo amidst the tempest of wind and the moving darkness, and uttered tremblingly the words, “Oh, Pierre! what an omen. Shall it be said of us as of them, 'Amor condusse noi ad una morte'?” (“Love has conducted us into one death.”)

“God grant we may one day say so,” replied he, pressing her to his bosom, “when we have earned it by a long life of mutual love and devotion. But now cheer up, darling; we are home.”

The canoes pushed madly to the bank. The startled holiday party sprang out; servants were there to help them. All ran across the lawn under the wildly-tossing trees, and in a few moments, before the storm could overtake them with its greatest fury, they reached the Manor House, and were safe under the protection of its strong and hospitable roof.