ed thy husband;
but banish me not, my own and only love!"

At the sound of that voice, my paralyzed senses burst the fetters that
enthralled them, and awoke to life so keen, there was agony in the
awakening. Every plan that reason had suggested and judgment approved
was forgotten or destroyed, and love, all-conquering, unconquerable
love, reigned over every thought, feeling, and emotion. I sunk upon my
knees before him,--I encircled his neck with my arms,--I called him by
every dear and tender name the vocabulary of love can furnish,--I wept
upon his bosom showers of blissful and relieving tears. Thus we knelt
and wept, locked in each other's arms, and again and again Ernest
repeated--

"I am not worthy to be thy husband," and I answered again and again--

"I love thee, Ernest. God, who knoweth all things, knows, and he only,
how I love thee."

It is impossible to describe such scenes. Those who have never known
them, must deem them high-wrought and extravagant those who _have_, cold
and imperfect. It is like trying to paint chain-lightning, or the
coruscations of the aurora borealis. I thought not how he came. What
cared I, when he was with me, when his arms were round me, his heart
answering to the throbs of mine? Forgotten were suspicion, jealousy,
violence, and wrong,--nothing remained but the memory of love.

As the shades of twilight deepened, his features seemed more distinct,
for the mist which tears had left dissolved, and I could see how wan and
shadowy he looked, and how delicate, even to sickliness, the hue of his
transparent complexion. Traces of suffering were visible in every
lineament, but they seemed left by the ground-swell of passion, rather
than its deeper ocean waves.

"You have seen your mother?" at length I said, feeling that I must no
longer keep him from her, "and Edith? And oh, Ernest! have you seen my
father? Do you know I have a father, whom I glory in acknowledging? Do
you know that the cloud is removed from my birth, the stigma from my
name? Oh, my husband, mine is a strange, eventful history!"

"Mr. Brahan told me of the discovery of your father, and of the death of
his unhappy brother. I have not seen him yet. But my mother! When I left
her, Gabriella, she had not one silver hair. _My_ hand sprinkled that
premature snow."

"It matters not now, dear Ernest," I cried, pained by the torturing
sighs that spoke the depth of his remorse. "Flowers will bloom sweetly
under that light sn