She left hastily. Without she met Theodore, who nearly ran against her. "Pardon me," he said; "a bridegroom who is hastening to his bride may be excused for being in a hurry. Is it not so, dear Miss Betsy?" He did not remark the cold expression with which she greeted him. "You will find Mary----indeed she was not expecting you." He greeted her hastily again, and rushed into the room. For the first time he found her alone, standing at the window, in the darkness, her hair loosened about her face. In his heart he fervently blessed the good fortune that seemed so willing to pave the way for a perfect reconciliation. Gently he approached her. She did not move. He passed his arm around her waist, and called her by her name. She started and turned round, and he saw her eyes, gleaming wet with tears. "You are weeping, Mary, my own love--you are weeping," he cried, and would have pressed her closer to his heart. She resisted him without speaking. She closed her eyes and repressed her tears, and shook her head. "No!" she said, at last, "I am not weeping. It is passed! It is well!" He took a turn up and down the room. He knew not how it happened, but in one moment all his joyousness had gone. "What is the grief." he said, at last, after a pause, "which _I_ may not know! If you but knew with what a feeling of happiness I stepped over this threshold, what a gleam of joy passed through me at finding you at last alone! And now you are so distant, and more reserved than under all the restraints of society. You know not _what_ amount of sorrow you heap upon both of us."