d
themselves upon Irene in a little tempest of cries and caresses and
delightful feminine fluttering. Truth to say, Irene was so overcome by
these greetings that she had not the strength to take a step forward
when King at length approached her. She stood with one hand grasping
the back of the chair. She knew that that moment would decide her life.
Nothing is more admirable in woman, nothing so shows her strength, as
her ability to face in public such a moment. It was the critical moment
for King--how critical the instant was, luckily, he did not then know.
If there had been in his eyes any doubt, any wavering, any timidity, his
cause would have been lost. But there was not. There was infinite love
and tenderness, but there was also resolution, confidence, possession,
mastery. There was that that would neither be denied nor turned aside,
nor accept any subterfuge. If King had ridden up on a fiery steed,
felled Meigs with his "mailed hand," and borne away the fainting girl on
his saddle pommel, there could have been no more doubt of his resolute
intention. In that look all the mists of doubt that her judgment had
raised in Irene's mind to obscure love vanished. Her heart within her
gave a great leap of exultation that her lover was a man strong enough
to compel, strong enough to defend. At that instant she knew that she
could trust him against the world. In that moment, while he still held
her hand, she experienced the greatest joy that woman ever knows--the
bliss of absolute surrender.

"I have come," he said, "in answer to your letter. And this is my
answer."

She had it in his presence, and read it in his eyes. With the delicious
sense thrilling her that she was no longer her own master there came
a new timidity. She had imagined that if ever she should meet Mr. King
again, she should defend her course, and perhaps appear in his eyes in a
very heroic attitude. Now she only said, falteringly, and looking down,
"I--I hoped you would come."

That evening there was a little dinner given in a private parlor by Mr.
Benson in honor of the engagement of his daughter. It was great larks
for the young ladies whom Mrs. Cortlandt was chaperoning, who behaved
with an elaboration of restraint and propriety that kept Irene in a
flutter of uneasiness. Mr. Benson, in mentioning the reason for the
"little spread," told the story of Abraham Lincoln's sole response
to Lord Lyons, the bachelor minister of her majesty, when he came
off