ppiness and pain. She
had not closed her eyes the night before since she had shyly given him
her hand with a scarcely whispered, "yes."

She knew he loved her; she had fancied a hundred times what it would be
when he should tell her of it, and now it had come so suddenly, so
unexpectedly. She had loved him long already, ever since she had seen
him that first time; and since then she had escaped none of the joy and
pain of a secret attachment.

She took nothing lightly, did nothing by halves, and she had given
herself up wholly to this fascination. Whoever should try to take him
from her now, must tear her heart out of her breast.

As she stood there the tears ran down over her pale face in great
drops, but a smile lingered about the small pouting mouth.

"I know it very well," she whispered, nodding at her father's picture,
"you would be sure to like him, papa!" And a happy memory of the words
he had spoken yesterday came back to her, of his lonely house, of his
longing for her, and that he could offer her nothing but that modest
home and a faithful heart.

His only wealth at present was a multitude of cares.

"Let me bear the cares with you, no happiness on earth would be greater
than this," she wished to say, but she had only drooped her eyes and
given him her hand--the words would not pass her lips.

It was as if she had been walking in the deepest shadow and had
suddenly come out into the warm, life-giving sunshine. "It is too much,
too much happiness!" she had thought this morning when she got up. She
thought so still, and it seemed to her that the tears she shed were
only a just tribute to her overpowering happiness. If her mother had
consented at once, if she had said, "He shall be like a beloved son to
me, bring him to me at once," that would have been too much, but this
refusal, this distrust seemed to be meant to tone down her bliss a
little. It was like the snow-storm in spring, which covers the early
leaves and blossoms,--but when it is past do they not bloom out in
double beauty?

The conversation in the next room grew more eager. Gertrude heard the
complaining voice of her mother more clearly than before. It had a
painful effect upon her and she cast a glance involuntarily at her
father's picture, as if he could still hear what had been the torture
of his life. Gertrude could recall so many scenes of complaint and
crying in that very room. How often had her father's authoritative
voice penetrated