ch was surging in her bosom. Her heart moved with a wild
yearning to tell him that he had found the treasure he sought,--that a
love as strong and as devoted as that of Francesca da Rimini was her own
free gift to him.

She tried to answer him, but could not. Her hand still remained fast
locked in his. He held to it as a drowning man holds to the hand that is
stretched to save him.

Philibert knew at that moment that the hour of his fate was come.
He would never let go that hand again till he called it his own, or
received from it a sign to be gone forever from the presence of Amelie
de Repentigny.

The soft twilight grew deeper and deeper every moment, changing the rosy
hues of the west into a pale ashen gray, over which hung the lamp of
love,--the evening star, which shines so brightly and sets so soon,--and
ever the sooner as it hastens to become again the morning star of a
brighter day.

The shadow of the broad, spreading tree fell darker round the rustic
seat where sat these two--as myriads have sat before and since, working
out the problems of their lives, and beginning to comprehend each
other, as they await with a thrill of anticipation the moment of mutual
confidence and fond confession.

Pierre Philibert sat some minutes without speaking. He could have sat
so forever, gazing with rapture upon her half-averted countenance, which
beamed with such a divine beauty, all aglow with the happy consciousness
of his ardent admiration, that it seemed the face of a seraph; and in
his heart, if not on his knees, he bent in worship, almost idolatrous,
at her feet.

And yet he trembled, this strong man who had faced death in every form
but this! He trembled by the side of this gentle girl,--but it was for
joy, not for fear. Perfect love casts out fear, and he had no fear now
for Amelie's love, although she had not yet dared to look at him. But
her little hand lay unreprovingly in his,--nestling like a timid bird
which loved to be there, and sought not to escape. He pressed it gently
to his heart; he felt by its magnetic touch, by that dumb alphabet of
love, more eloquent than spoken words, that he had won the heart of
Amelie de Repentigny.

"Pierre," said she,--she wanted to say it was time to rejoin
their companions, but the words would not come. Her face was still
half-averted, and suffused with an unseen blush, as she felt his strong
arm round her; and his breath, how sweet it seemed, fanning her cheek.
She had