Day, ethereal and splendid, burst up the wide horizon like a hymn, and filled the sacred morning with light and love and joy. A morning ruled by a celestial sun—a morning blue and golden, and throbbing with immortality. To breathe was happiness. To drink the cool aërial wine of the clear, sweet atmosphere, was in itself rapture. In all the lustrous azure there was no cloud, and the heavenly day seemed set apart and consecrate to love. Its glorious ray streamed through the crystal and purple panes of the rich library, and filled the perfumed air with floating lights of violet and gold. The chamber, decked and fragrant with a profusion of delicate and dewy blush roses, and swimming in the sumptuous colored radiance, had bloomed into a hymeneal bower. But more than all its adornments, was the youthful beauty of Emily and Wentworth. They sat by each other, her hand clasped in his, talking in gay, fond voices, and the sun never shone on lovers more joyous and handsome than they. His face, lit by the blue, sparkling eyes and the proud, brilliant smile, with the thick cluster of auburn locks carelessly curling on the passionate sloping brow and around the florid cheeks, was turned to hers; while she, magnificent in her Spanish beauty, her damask cheeks glowing through the clear gold of her complexion, and heightened by the darkness of her hair, gazed at him with lustrous eyes, the pearls of her curved carnation mouth half shown in her slow and indolent ambrosial smile. So sat they in the gold and violet glory of the room—a sight to make an anchorite forswear his weeds, and pray the saints to send him youth and love. A bounding step was heard upon the stairs, and Emily turned, while Wentworth looked toward the door. It opened presently, and the martial figure of Harrington appeared. The color flashed upon the face of the superb brunette, and springing to her feet, she ran to him. Then, with her arms around him, she turned to Wentworth with a flushed and laughing face, and— “Are you jealous, Richard, are you jealous?” she cried, with riant gaiety. “Jealous? Jupiter Pluvius!” shouted Wentworth, bounding to his feet, and rushing over to Harrington. Clasping him with an embrace of steel, Harrington bent his head, and kissed him on each cheek, then pushed him from him, with his hands upon his shoulders. “That is the kiss of France,” he gaily cried. “That is the kiss of the Paris that I love. And here,” he added, grasping Wentworth’s hand, “here is the hand of the Old England and the New—the hand of love and faith and the oaken heart. Yours, Richard, now and always.” Wringing the generous hand, his face convulsed, and his lip quivering, Wentworth gazed at his friend with humid eyes. A moment, and two bright tears rolled down his cheeks, and his head fell. “Ah, John,” he faltered, “I do not deserve the hand, nor the heart that gives it. I treated you basely, and you”—