Meanwhile, Theodore, already early in the day, had mounted the stone steps of the large house in which Mary's parents resided. The old servant opened the door. "They waited long for you last night," he said. "I was sent to your lodgings, but you had not returned. Miss Mary thought that you must have met with some accident, as you were on horseback. But, God be praised! you are safe." Theodore did not answer; he heard music within--a sonata of Beethoven--suddenly it ceased; a stool was pushed back, a gown rustled. As he entered, Mary stood before him; she seemed to have paused suddenly in the middle of the room on her way to the door; she tried to speak; her cheeks flushed. He seized her hand eagerly with both of his, and now saw that she had been weeping. "Mary!" he said, "I find that I have more to crave pardon for than I expected--you have been uneasy about me!" She tried to smile. "I am delighted to find that there was no reason for it," she said. "Something prevented you; it was very foolish to think the worst at once. I will go and call my parents." He held her back entreatingly. "You have been weeping, Mary!" "It is nothing; I had a bad night, and the music just now agitated me." He let her hand fall. She remained standing on the same spot, supporting herself against a chair. He took one turn up and down the room, and stood before her; he grasped her hand again, stammered out a word, and then pressed her passionately to his breast. She rested weeping blissfully and silently in his arms. "We will go to my parents," said Mary, when she had had a little recovered the emotion of that first embrace. "Come!" She took him gently by the hand. He longed to remain alone with her; it seemed to him as though she would be separated from him again when they came into the presence of others; yet he permitted her to lead him. They found her parents together in her mother's boudoir. As he entered he felt a longing to entreat his loved one to be silent on what had just passed between them, he felt incapable of talking calmly over it, or of meeting any one but herself in his blissful intoxication. It had already passed her lips. The mother, a stately, ceremonious woman, clasped him heartily in her arms; formal as she usually was, she could not hear the pleasant news without saying some heartfelt words of blessing, which, kindly as they were meant, still sounded foreign and strange to Theodore's state of feeling. Her father said nothing. He pressed his future son-in-law warmly by the hand, and kissed his daughter's forehead.