"Wait a moment before you send for an officer," said I. She faced me again, frowning. "You must know," said I, speaking as kindly as I could, "that you have no law to take hold of me now. The strong arm of the North has freed me, though I opposed it, and now it declares me the equal of any man before the law. It says that if I am innocent I shall be protected, and I am innocent. You could not have me arrested in the first place, and, even if you could, it would not be in good taste at this time. You have told me of the bitterness of your life, but I have not told you of the misery of mine. You--but I will charge my misery to nature. Good-bye, and in all truth I hope that God may bless you." I stepped out upon the portico; and--and there in the growing light stood Titine. My breath came with a gasp as I beheld her. She looked at me, looked at my tattered feet and covered her face with her hands. "Titine, I must now say good-bye forever." She looked up. There was heaven in her eyes. "No," she said. "No, you are not to say good-bye. I am going with you." "What!" I cried, almost choking with emotion. "I am going with you. I would rather go to perdition with you than to be separated from you again." She caught my hand and held it and I stood there trembling. "You told me of your love and now I am going to tell you of mine," she said. "My soul has wept over you, and in the night my heart has cried aloud. I am going with you." I put my arms about her, thanking God that I was alive, but almost unable to believe my senses. And then my condition smote me. "But I am a pauper, Titine. I am a penniless tramp and the dogs bark at me." "You are not a pauper," she said. "Wait a moment." She ran up the stairs and soon returned with a pocket-book. "Take it," she said, handing it to me. "I have saved it for you. And now, let us go away from this desolate place--away off somewhere into the world of freedom and love." And with my arm about her, we stepped forth into the light of a new day, our faces turned toward the rising sun. * * * * * I sit here to-night in my Ohio home, and I look at a portrait on the wall, enlarged from a powder-blackened photograph that I brought with me, when foot-sore and heart-heavy, I walked from Richmond to my desolate birth-place in Kentucky. And here beside the portrait is the picture of a monument and an apple-tree. I hear my daughter at the piano, and I hear Titine singing a mellow song of the long ago. It has been a night of company at my house, and some of the younger guests have lingered into this late hour, for the occasion is one of exceeding cheer. Early in the evening a committee called to inform me of what I knew full well, my re-election to Congress. THE END.