“Emmeline,” said he, “give me back that ring, you shall wear it no more; it was one _de mauvaise augure_, and shall in future live on my hand for a memento, like Prince Cheri’s. I will marry you over again with _this_.” And, with a half melancholy smile, he drew from his finger a small fretted gold ring, which appeared to have been intended for a woman. At the same time, apparently repeating some words to himself, he put in its place that which he had taken off Emmeline’s hand. “Give me a prayer-book,” said he; “and look for the marriage ceremony, for I have forgotten what I then promised.” When he got the book, he read it to himself for some time in silence. “Good God!” he at length exclaimed, “did I pronounce these words? did I make those vows? villain that I was! Emmeline, can you forgive the past?” “Oh! do not talk of the past,” she eagerly exclaimed; “I am too happy now to wish to think of it.” “But what an awful account I shall have to give,” added he, again casting his eyes on the book recording his solemn engagement with God. “Dearest Fitzhenry!” said Emmeline, sinking on her knees beside him, “a God of mercy will forgive all.” “Pray to him for me,” said he, in a low tone; “I fear I cannot. I never prayed!” Emmeline shuddered, she seized his hand: “Oh! Fitzhenry, talk not so wildly; God is now calling you to him, shrink not from him.” Fitzhenry pressed her hand; again took the prayer-book, and with a tremulous voice read these words: “I, Ernest, take thee, Emmeline, to my wedded wife, to love and to cherish; and forsaking all other, keep myself only unto thee as long as we both shall live; and thereto I plight thee my troth.” The last words died on his lips, and closing his eyes, he sank back, seemingly both affected and exhausted. Emmeline was too much moved to speak: she pressed to her lips and to her heart, that hand now a second time given her—but in how different a manner! From that day, Emmeline’s prayer-book was his constant companion. She saw his mind was deeply affected, and left the strong impression to work its own effect. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VI. ——Whilst I remember Thee, and thy virtues, I cannot forget My blemishes in them; and so still think of The wrong I did myself. WINTER’S TALE. A FEW days after the scene recorded in the last chapter, when Fitzhenry appeared better than he had yet done since his illness, and that he had even some of his own natural and playful cheerfulness, “Lady Fitzhenry,” said he, with a smile, “how long is it since you have liked me—_loved_ me?” added he faintly, colouring. Emmeline coloured too. “Oh! I can’t remember,” said she; “I tried to hate you, for I felt it my duty to myself to do so; but somehow, from the very first, I could not.”