His arms were open, her blushing face was buried on his shoulder, and at last, long last, the two loving hearts were one. I am very sorry that I am not able to enlarge upon this tender scene. The two words of conversation which I have here recorded, contain really the core and marrow of the whole interview. Doubtless, many of my readers understand it thoroughly, and the rest of them will do so, if they be good and patient. _Multum in parvo_ is very true in declarations of mutual love, and as I am in a quoting vein, I’ll e’en quote from Tupper, so oft the butt of “witlings with a maggot in their brain;” his writings will at any rate bear favourable comparison with those of the sibilant geese who hiss at him. Quoth he,-- “Love! What a volume in a word! An ocean in a tear! A seventh heaven in a glance! A whirlwind in a sigh! The lightning in a touch!--A millenium in a moment!” Well, the “millenium” had dawned on Philip and Lucy; they remained long in close and peculiarly interesting conversation, but the door was shut, and all I know about it is, that Nathan Blyth thought Lucy unconscionably late with dinner. All things, however, have an end, and at length Master Philip was ruthlessly expelled from Paradise, and betook himself to the blacksmith’s shop. The gallant and noble knight of the anvil laid down his hammer to greet his visitor, but Philip was beforehand with him,-- “Nathan Blyth! Lucy has consented to be my wife.” “Philip Fuller, you’ve loved her long, you’ve wooed her honourably, you’ve won her heart, and in my soul, I believe you deserve her, and that’s more than I could say of any other man on earth.” A warm and hearty hand-grasp sealed the covenant. Philip Fuller hasted to his ancestral Hall to gladden the heart of his father with the welcome news that Lucy Blyth was his affianced wife. So Lucy Blyth’s filial love and duty were at length rewarded, and Philip Fuller’s loyalty to God, his father, and his love, obtained their well-won prize. CHAPTER XXXVIII. BLACK MORRIS “WANTS THAT BRICKBAT AGAIN.” “O I have often seen the tear From Pity’s eye flow bright and clear, When Sympathy hath bid it stay, And tremble on its timid way; But there’s a tear more pure and bright, And moulded with as soft a light,-- The tear that gushes from the eye, Fresh from the founts of memory.” _Anon._