"I was going," he says, and then their fingers meet again and press each other gently. Coming to the stile that leads into the next path, he lays down his gun, and, mounting the steps, holds out his hand to help her to gain the top. Then, springing down to the other side, he takes her in his arms to bring her to the ground beside him. But when his arms have closed round her he leaves them there, and draws her to his heart, and lays his cheek against hers. With a little soft happy sob she lifts her arms and lays them round his neck; and then, he tells himself, there is nothing more on earth to be wished for. "My wife!--my darling!" he says, unsteadily. The minutes pass; then she looks up at him with soft speaking eyes. There are no tears upon her cheeks, but her face is pale as moonlight, and on it is a new deep meaning that Dorian has never seen there in all his life before,--a gentle light, as kind as death, and as soft as holy love! As she so stands, gazing solemnly into his face, with all her heart in her eyes, Dorian stoops and lays his lips on her. She colors a lovely trembling crimson, and then returns the caress. "You do love me at last?" he says. And then she says,-- "I do, with all my soul,"--in a tone not to be mistaken. Afterwards, "Are you happy now?" "Yes. How can I be otherwise? For 'Thou with softest touch transfigurest This toil-worn earth into a heaven of rest.' How could you so far have misjudged me?" he says, reproachfully, referring to the old wound. "What had I done to you, that you should believe me capable of such a thing?" "It was my one sin," whispers she, nervously. "Is it too bad to be forgiven?" "I wonder what you could do, I wouldn't forgive," replies he, tenderly, "now I know you love me." "I think you needn't have thrown my poor glove out of the window!" she says, with childish reproach. "That was very unkind, I think." "It was brutal," says Branscombe. "But I don't believe you did love me then." "Well, I did. You broke my heart that day. It will take you all you know"--with an adorable smile--"to mend it again." "My own love," says Dorian, "what can I do? I would offer you mine in exchange, but, you see, you broke it many a month ago, so the bargain would do you no good. Let us both make up our minds to heal each other's wounds, and so make restitution." "Sweet heart, I bid you be healed," says Georgie, laying her small hand, with a pretty touch of tenderest coquetry, upon his breast. And then a second silence falls upon them, that lasts even longer than the first. The moments fly; the breezes grow stronger, and shake with petulant force the waving boughs. The night is falling, and "weeps perpetual dews, and saddens Nature's scene." "Why do you not speak?" says Georgie, after a little bit, rubbing her cheek softly against his. "What is it that you want?" "Nothing. Don't you know that 'Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much'?"