own accord, have given her hand to him; yet he holds it
so closely in his own that his clasp almost hurts her. They do not
speak; they do not turn even to look at each other, but go on their
way, silent, uncertain, but no longer apart. By that one tender touch
they have been united.

"You are going abroad again?" she says, in a tone so low that he can
scarcely hear her.

"I was going," he says, and then their fingers meet again and press
each other gently.

Coming to the stile that leads into the next path, he lays down his
gun, and, mounting the steps, holds out his hand to help her to gain
the top.

Then, springing down to the other side, he takes her in his arms to
bring her to the ground beside him.

But when his arms have closed round her he leaves them there, and
draws her to his heart, and lays his cheek against hers. With a little
soft happy sob she lifts her arms and lays them round his neck; and
then, he tells himself, there is nothing more on earth to be wished
for.

"My wife!--my darling!" he says, unsteadily.

The minutes pass; then she looks up at him with soft speaking eyes.
There are no tears upon her cheeks, but her face is pale as moonlight,
and on it is a new deep meaning that Dorian has never seen there in
all his life before,--a gentle light, as kind as death, and as soft as
holy love!

As she so stands, gazing solemnly into his face, with all her heart in
her eyes, Dorian stoops and lays his lips on her. She colors a lovely
trembling crimson, and then returns the caress.

"You do love me at last?" he says. And then she says,--

"I do, with all my soul,"--in a tone not to be mistaken. Afterwards,
"Are you happy now?"

"Yes. How can I be otherwise? For

'Thou with softest touch transfigurest
This toil-worn earth into a heaven of rest.'

How could you so far have misjudged me?" he says, reproachfully,
referring to the old wound. "What had I done to you, that you should
believe me capable of such a thing?"

"It was my one sin," whispers she, nervously. "Is it too bad to be
forgiven?"

"I wonder what you could do, I wouldn't forgive," replies he,
tenderly, "now I know you love me."

"I think you needn't have thrown my poor glove out of the window!" she
says, with childish reproach. "That was very unkind, I think."

"It was brutal," says Branscombe. "But I don't believe you did love me
then."

"Well, I did. You broke my heart that day. It will take you all you
know"--with