And with a mighty effort she choked down the paroxysm of joy, which had almost burst out in a flood of tears, and hurried from the room, and out upon the terrace, to meet him, to receive once more a smile of greeting. His dogs came bounding up to her, as she stood at the top of the stone steps, and fawned upon her, for they loved her—every thing loved her, save he only who had most cause to do so. Yet now, it was true, he did smile upon her, as he dismounted from his horse, and called her once more “Dear Theresa.” And he passed his arm about her slender waist, and led her back into the house, chiding her good-humoredly for exposing herself to the chilly night-wind. “I feel it not,” she said, joyously, with her own sunny smile lighting up her face, “I feel it not—nor should feel it, were it charged with all the snow storms of the north; my heart is so warm, so full. Oh! Jasper, that dear name, in your own voice, has made me but too happy.” “Silly child!” he replied, “silly child,” patting her affectionately on the shoulder, as he had used to do in times long past—at least it seemed long, very long to her, though they were in truth but a few months distant. “And do you love me, Theresa?” “Love you?” she said, gazing up into his eyes with more of wonder that he should ask such a question, than of any other feeling. “Love you, oh, God! can you doubt it, Jasper?” “No,” he said, hesitating slightly, “no, dearest. And yet I have given you but little cause of late to love me.” “Do you know _that_—do you feel _that_, Jasper?” she cried, eagerly, joyously, “then I am, indeed, happy; then you really do love me?” “And can you forgive me, Theresa?” “Forgive you—for what?” “For the pain I have caused you of late.” “It is all gone—it is all forgotten! You have been vexed, grieved about something that has wrung you in secret. But you should have told me of it, dearest Jasper, and I would have consoled you. But it is all, all over now; nay, but I am now glad of it, since this great joy is all the sweeter for the past sorrow.” “And do you love me well enough, Theresa, to make a sacrifice, a great sacrifice for me?” “To sacrifice my heart’s blood—ay, my life, if to do so would make you happy.” “Your life, silly wench! how should your little life profit me? But that is the way ever with you women. If one ask you the smallest trifle, you ever proffer your lives, as if they could be of any use, or as if one would not be hanged for taking them. I have known girls refuse one kiss, and then make a tender of their lives.” He spoke with something of his late habitual bitterness, it is true; but there was a smile on his face, as he uttered the words, and she laughed merrily, as she answered,