enly spirit! Lucy!"

Tenderly her lips part--"I do not weep for sorrow."

The big bright drops lighten, and roll down, imaged in his soul.

They lean together--shadows of ineffable tenderness playing on their
thrilled cheeks and brows.

He lifts her hand, and presses his mouth to it. She has seen little of
mankind, but her soul tells her this one is different from others, and
at the thought, in her great joy, tears must come fast, or her heart
will break--tears of boundless thanksgiving. And he, gazing on those
soft, ray-illumined, dark-edged eyes, and the grace of her loose falling
tresses, feels a scarce-sufferable holy fire streaming through his
members.

It is long ere they speak in open tones.

"O happy day when we met!"

What says the voice of one, the soul of the other echoes.

"O glorious heaven looking down on us!"

Their souls are joined, are made one for evermore beneath that bending
benediction.

"O eternity of bliss!"

Then the diviner mood passes, and they drop to earth.

"Lucy! come with me to-night, and look at the place where you are some
day to live. Come, and I will row you on the lake. You remember what
you said in your letter that you dreamt?--that we were floating over
the shadow of the Abbey to the nuns at work by torchlight felling the
cypress, and they handed us each a sprig. Why, darling, it was the
best omen in the world, their felling the old trees. And you write such
lovely letters. So pure and sweet they are. I love the nuns for having
taught you."

"Ah, Richard! See! we forget! Ah!" she lifts up her face pleadingly,
as to plead against herself, "even if your father forgives my birth, he
will not my religion. And, dearest, though I would die for you I cannot
change it. It would seem that I was denying God; and--oh! it would make
me ashamed of my love."

"Fear nothing!" He winds her about with his arm. "Come! He will love us
both, and love you the more for being faithful to your father's creed.
You don't know him, Lucy. He seems harsh and stern--he is full of
kindness and love. He isn't at all a bigot. And besides, when he hears
what the nuns have done for you, won't he thank them, as I do? And--oh!
I must speak to him soon, and you must be prepared to see him soon, for
I cannot bear your remaining at Belthorpe, like a jewel in a sty. Mind!
I'm not saying a word against your uncle. I declare I love everybody and
everything that sees you and touches you. Stay! it is a wonder