de, 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 p