ransparent eyes, and
gazing down into them and into the depths of his soul, seeming to see
great happiness, dimmed a little with regret, she bent her head and
put her lips to his, and tears fell from her eyes once again upon his
face.

"Arthur," again lifting her head, "how glad I am that this is all told
you now, when you are tenderest to me, and I have no secret to carry
and fear, nothing to do now but to make you happy, and be so happy.
Sometime, soon, you will tell me all your precious heart history,
keeping nothing from me."

"Everything, everything, Julia! and something I may say now--I don't
want to leave this sweet, sacred place, without a word about my
letter. It was written in utter hopelessness of your love. The
occurrences of that strange night had replaced me within the reach of
my own esteem."

"How had you ever lost that, Arthur?"

"By my own folly. I loved you when I came back--before I went
away--always. It was a dream, a sweet, delicious dream--that inspired
poetry, and kindled ambition, but was purely unselfish. I had not a
thought or a hope of a return. This passion came to possess me, to
occupy my mind, and absorb my whole being. I knew it could not in the
nature of things be returned."

"Arthur!"

"And I rushed into your presence, and declared it, and received what
I expected and needed--though it paralyzed me, but my pride came to my
rescue, and what strength I had; I went away humiliated, and aroused
myself and found places on which I could stand, and strength to work.
So far as you were concerned, Julia, I only hoped that in the far
future, if you ever recalled my mad words--"

"That did not fall in the dust under my feet, and were not forgotten,
sir," interrupted Julia.

"Thank you, dearest--but if they should come to you, you would feel
that they had not insulted you. I avoided you, of course, and had to
avoid your mother. I would not see you, but you were ever about me,
and became an inspiring power. I burned all the sketches I had made of
you, but one, and that I mislaid."

"I found it. I am glad you lost it, you naughty child."

"Did you? Well, I went through the winter and spring, and the awful
calamity of Henry's death, and the next fall and winter, and you wore
away, and although I might not see you, your absence made Newbury a
desert. And I felt it, when you came back. And when I got ready to go
I could not. I set the time, sent off my trunk, and lingered. I even
went one