e talked
of."

"You were cruel not to tell me," I said.

"I waited for my year to finish as I had said I would, and then, Emily,
I waited longer for fear you did not know your heart. Matthias said to
me one day, 'Masr' Louis, dat man neber can gain de day ober thar; Miss
Emily done gone clar off de books, an he's such a bother--um--um.' This
set me to thinking; I asked him how he came to think so. 'Dunno, can't
help it, 'pears like dat gal's eyes tell me 'nuf.' All this was good to
hear, and I had watched you very closely for days, thinking every
morning, 'I will tell her before night;' and several times went into
Hal's room purposely, but Mr. Benton was always before me. It was
because you felt all this that the letter made you feel truly an opening
path--your tearful talk by the old apple tree was the 'sesame' that
opened the way to the light."

"I do not like to feel that man is such a character as all these things
indicate," I said, adding dreamily, "but I never came very near to him.
He is a splendid artist, and still the canvas does not speak of his
soul."

"How utterly void of feeling for those in bondage he seems to be! What a
cold crust covers him! Emily."

"It hurts me to think you could for a moment believe I preferred him to
you."

"You must not for a moment believe that in my soul I did, for it is not
true; but I knew your artless, loving heart, and I knew also Mr. Benton
had the power to polish sentences of flattery that might for a little
dazzle you, as it were."

"And they did sometimes, Louis," I said, for I wanted the whole truth to
be made plain, while I felt his glittering eyes fastened on me, "but
not long. When I was alone, I saw your face and longed to hear again the
words you had said to me. We are both young, Louis, and I feared you did
not love me as you thought. I had no right to defend myself against Mr.
Benton's attacks by using your name with my own. And when the year was
past, then I still felt no right, and further," I added slowly, "to me
my love was a sacred picture I could not ask him to look at."

"My Emily forever," said Louis, folding me closely to him. "Your fears
were groundless as to the changing of my love for you, but, as you say,
the picture was not for his eyes. Your suffering causes me sorrow, but
let us hope it has not been in vain."

"It is all right, Louis, now, and I have said to myself, let 'Emily will
do it' be the words hereafter, for 'Emily did it' has pa