He entered softly, softly closed the door behind him, and stood in the dim room with a beating heart. For a moment, he only saw the books in their cases, the sumptuous furniture, the glimmer of the frames upon the walls, the rich, dark color of the room. Stealing to the window, he parted the curtains to let in a little light, and turning, in the faint ray he saw on the low couch, the pale face of his beloved, with the long dark eyelash sleeping on her cheek, and her black hair fallen in a thick, soft tress along the exquisite and melancholy beauty of her countenance. Still, peaceful, void of scorn or pride, lovely and mournful in her marble repose! The tears streamed from his eyes, and gliding near her he knelt by her side, forgetting, forgiving all, and resolved, though she woke upon him in anger, with hate, with contempt, to answer her only with blessings, and love her till his pulses were still forever. The hours passed by. The room grew dark, and going to the window, he put aside the curtains, and let in the twilight. That twilight was yet early, for the sun had but just set, and the grey light again lit the sleeping face of Emily. As he watched it, he saw the color rise to it—the sunny gold and rose, the bright carnation of the curved lips, behind which glimmered the dim pearls. With his heart wildly throbbing, he kept his eyes fixed upon her countenance. Presently, a faint smile stole upon it, and she murmured softly—“he gave me that rose.” A thrill surged through him. He remembered the rose he had given her in the sunrise of their love, and knew that she was dreaming of it and of him. Gazing upon her face, he heard her faint regular breathing pause in a long respiration like a sigh, her form moved slightly under the silken coverlet, and tossing out her beautiful bare arms, they fell along her form, and she lay still. The next moment, her large and lustrous eyes unclosed slowly, and met his. She did not start, but the eyes gradually brightened, and the color rose upon her face and lips in rich suffusion. He did not move—he did not speak—he knelt beside her, gazing into her face, with his heart throbbing, and a still flush in his brain. “It is a dream,” she murmured. “A dream of my love.” He did not speak, but his arms softly stole around her, and hers enfolded him at first so lightly that he scarcely felt them. Lightly and softly at first, till suddenly with a double cry they were clasped together, and the disenchanted Fairyland of love burst and streamed in music and light and odor around them. “Richard! Is it you?” Holding him from her, with all her strength, her face impassioned, her eyes like stars, she gazed upon him, with her fervent cry still ringing in the twilight air. “It is I. Forgive me, Emily. I love you.” She impetuously drew him to her, and locked in each other’s arms, they were still. The fairy prince had triumphed, and Witherlee’s work was quite undone! CHAPTER XXII. INTERSTITIAL.