e, do you love me, and will you be my wife?"

"Henry," she replied, softly, but firmly, "I _do_ love you. I have loved
you a long, long time, and I shall be proud to be your wife, if--you
think me worthy."

It was more than I could bear. The sleepless nights, the days of almost
entire fasting, together with all my troubles, had been too much for me.
I was weak in body and in mind.

"Oh, Jane!" was all I could say. Then, leaning my head upon her
shoulder, I cried like a child. It didn't seem childish then.

"Oh, but, Henry, I won't, then, if you feel so badly about it," said
she, half laughing. Then, changing her tone, she begged me to become
calm. But in vain. The barriers were broken down, and the tide of
emotion, long suppressed, must gush forth. She evidently came to this
conclusion. She stood quiet and silent, and at last began timidly
stroking my hair. I shall never forget the first touch of her hand upon
my forehead. It soothed me, or else my emotion was spent; for, after a
while, I became quite still.

"Oh, Jane," I whispered, "my sorrow I could bear; but this strange
happiness overwhelms me. Can it be true? Oh, it is a fearful thing to be
so happy! How came you to love me, Jane? You are so beautiful, and I--I
am so"----

"You are so good, Henry!" she exclaimed, earnestly,--"too good for me!
You are a true-hearted, noble soul, worthy the love of any woman. If you
weren't so bashful," she continued, in a lower tone, "I should not say
so much; but--do you suppose nobody is happy but yourself? There is
somebody who scarcely more than an hour ago was weeping bitter tears,
feeling that the greatest joy of her life was gone forever. But now her
joy has returned to her, her heart is glad, she trembles with happiness.
Oh, Henry, 'it is a fearful thing to be so happy!'"

I could not answer; so I drew her close up to me. She was mine now, and
why should I not press her closely to my heart,--that heart so brimful
of love for her? There was a little bench at the foot of the apple-tree,
and there I made her sit down by me and answer the many eager questions
I had to ask. I forgot all about the dampness and the evening air.
She told how her mother had liked me from the first,--how they were
informed, by some few acquaintances they had made in the village, of my
early disappointment, and also of the peculiar state of mind into which
I was thrown by those early troubles; but when she began to love me she
couldn't tell. S