over to the Cottage, and
take him by surprise."

I was just looking at him, wondering how to meet this mood, when
there came a light tap at the window, a French window that opened on
to the lawn.

"Hark!" said I.

We listened; again it came, again; and then a little voice calling,
"Emilia! Emilia!"

"It is Constance!" I cried, and, springing to my feet, I flung open
curtain and shutter and window.

There she stood in the dark, with the light of the room upon her.
She was in black, with a dark shawl wrapped round her head; I could
see nothing clearly save the white, outstretched hands, the pale
sweet face, with its halo of burnished curls.

She sprang towards me with a little sob, and we laughed and cried
together as I clasped her to me, covering her beloved face with
kisses. I was still holding her fast when she perceived Gabriel;
from the stronghold of my arms, with her head still resting on my
bosom, she turned towards him and held out her hand. I looked
neither at him nor at her, but, bending away, laid my cheek upon her
curls.

And it was thus they met again.

Of the days that immediately followed, there is not much to tell.
Any doubt I might have entertained as to the continuance of their
mutual passion vanished swiftly and entirely. The path of duty lay
very clear before me.

I saw more of Constance than of Gabriel in those days; we were
almost always together, and he avoided us. Richard Norton, who had
greatly aged in the year of our absence, was so happy in his son
that Gabriel had every excuse for spending the greater part of his
time at the Cottage. Indeed, he usually left me directly after
breakfast, and did not return until supper-time.

He wrote a great deal, out in the woods and in his old room. The
poem was approaching completion, and this, in fact, was the reason
why for fifteen days I deferred the execution of my purpose.

The sufferings we all three experienced daily at this time, when it
was impossible to entirely avoid each other's presence, were
endurable to me, and I sought to help Constance to bear them. To him
they were, so to speak, a source of inspiration; and I therefore
determined to let things run their course until the last line should
be written.

On the fourth of October,--it was Saturday,--I, having a headache,
did not get up to breakfast, and Gabriel left before nine o'clock
for the Thatched Cottage. My sweet Constance spent the entire
morning with me. She had brough