"I shall never, never forget the night he died," she continued, unconsciously playing with a leaf, and still standing by the table. Egerton had risen, and was leaning against the mantel-piece. "He had seemed better, that day, and happier, and I sat watching him by the fire-light as he lay, asleep, as I thought, in his chair, long after he was gone from me." She shuddered slightly. "I had been dreaming of better times for him, perhaps a return to the Priory; but it was soon broken, my dream! and then Georgy was away, and the Winters, and I was, so alone! I had none, no, not one near me, that I loved, except poor nurse." She stopped to recover herself; Egerton, springing to her side, took her hand in both his, "Kate! long-loved, dearest, you have indeed been sad and weary; give me the right to be beside you, come sorrow or joy; I cannot bear to think of your being grieved and alone, while I, who so pined for a glimpse of you, was far away. Let me hold you to my heart, and shelter you from the roughness of life, or share its burdens with you. My beautiful one! be my wife, and come what may, we will bear it with the strength of two hearts." He drew her to him, close, close, and she leaned her hand upon his shoulder, murmuring, "I always wished you to be there, _he_ loved you so much." Where was sorrow, or fear, or doubt? "Where the evil that could touch her now that she had reached the haven where she would be?" vanished before the genial sunshine of Egerton's love. One long, fond, gentle kiss, before she extricated herself from his embrace, no longer her own, but pledged to be his while God granted them life, though she had scarce breathed an articulate syllable. The daylight was beginning to fade before Winter and his wife returned, and still they talked of the past, and planned for the future, and opened their inmost souls to each other; and Kate, the first strange, bewildering, emotion of finding every shadow of reserve swept from between herself and Egerton was gradually growing calmer; his voice stilling her heart to the deep tranquillity of perfect contempt. A glance on his entrance told Winter the state of affairs better, indeed, than Egerton's incoherent explanation. We have reached the climax of our story, not much remains to be told, already its simple annals have spread themselves out too far; patience, but little remains. _To Mrs. O'Toole, Fermoy, Ireland._