"To think of making one's last dying speech and confession, and then not dying after all," she says, in torments of confusion, yet unable to restrain an uneasy laugh. "It is _too_ disgraceful! I shall never get over it! _Never!_--NEVER!--_NEVER!!_" "Time, which mitigates all afflictions, _may_ mitigate yours," he replies, gaily, unable to resist the exquisite pleasure of teasing her. She turns from him with a petulant movement of head and shoulder. "Why don't you go?" she cries, the angry tears flashing into her eyes; "I hate the sight of you!" At that he grows grave. "Essie," he says, slipping his arms round her as she sits, shrinking away from him in the deep chintz chair, "in that awful moment, when you thought--and God knows I thought so too--that we were saying 'goodbye' to one another for _always_, the barriers that your wretched false pride had built up between us were knocked down; try as you may, you can never build them up again." "I knocked down plenty of barriers, I'm aware," she answers, ruefully. "You need not remind me of that!" "Never to be built up again any more--never any more!" he says, his mirth swallowed up in great solemn joy. She has fallen forwards into his embrace; he holds her little trembling form against his heart--a posture to which she submits, chiefly because it affords her an opportunity of hiding her face upon his shoulder. "Never any more!" she repeats, mechanically, and then there is silence, save for the thrush, that trills ever his high tender lay. Presently Essie stirs, and whispers, with uneasiness, "St. John!" "Well?" "You won't tell any one, will you?" "Tell them what?--that you and I are going to be married? By this time to-morrow I hope to have told every one I meet: I am not so selfish as to wish to keep such good news to myself." "No--I don't mean that; but you won't tell any one about--about--about _that?_" This is the nearest approach she can bear to make to the abhorred theme. "Esther!" "And you'll promise never to joke about it?" "_Never_, by the holy poker!" "And you won't twit me with it when we quarrel?" "What! you contemplate our having little differences of opinion?" "Of course," she answers, laughing; "when two such ill-tempered people come together, how can it be otherwise?" "Quarrel or no quarrel," he cries, passionately kissing her sweet shy lips, as one that can never be satiated with their tender warmth, "we are together now, for bad and good, for fair weather and foul, till death us do part! Say it after me, Essie; don't let ours be a one-sided compact." And Essie, obedient, murmurs after him, "Till death us do part!" * * * * * And so it comes to pass that in the sweet spring weather, when the ground is a carpet of strewn cherry-blooms, when the cows stand knee-deep in buttercups, and the brake-fern is uncrumpling its tender fronds, the church-bells ring out, and they two are wed.