"You--you will be kind to me?" she faltered, bursting into tears. "I am leaving a happy home, my mother, my father, the friends of my childhood, I am leaving all for you; you will be ever kind to me?" "Adeline," he interrupted, "how can you ask the question? I am about to make you my dear wife; I will cherish you as you never yet were cherished. Your parents have loved you dearly, but not with such a love as mine. Heaven helping me, your life shall be one dream of happiness. No mother ever watched over her first-born, as I will watch over and cherish you." Save for the wild beating of her heart, as his hand lay against it, he might have thought her cold, so still did she stand. It was the impassioned repose of all-perfect love, too deep, too pure for utterance. "You are leaving this home for one more beautiful," he continued: "you will forgive me for saying so when you see Castle Wafer. A home where you will reign its idol. I speak not now of myself. Its retainers are tried and faithful: they have been ours from generation to generation. They served my father, they have served my brother, they will serve me; and you, their mistress, will be revered and worshipped. It will be a happy home. We may sojourn occasionally in foreign lands; mingle in the gaieties of the world; but we shall return to it with a zest that in time will render us loth to quit it. There we will bring up our children, training them to goodness; there we will learn to live, so that we may become worthy to inherit a better world: the mode of worship may be different, but the faith and end are the same--one hope, one heaven, one God. Oh, Adeline, put away all fear for the future, all doubt of me, if indeed you could have such! I would bid another trust to my honour, I conjure you to confide in my love." As they turned to the house, after a few hasty moments given to the arrangement of their plans, a sudden cough, sounding very near, startled them. St. John stepped aside a few paces, and saw, seated on a bench, Father Marc. Could he have been there long? If so, he must have heard more than was expedient, for he understood English. St. John bit his lip with vexation. "Are you there, father?" "I have this instant sat down, my son. I am no longer young, and my legs pain me when I walk far. My course this evening has been a long one." "He may have come up only now," was the mental conclusion of Mr. St. John. "Is that Mademoiselle with you?" resumed the priest--for Adeline, in her vexation, did not come prominently forward. "Should the child be abroad in the night-air?" "No. I am going to take her indoors. But it is not night yet." Not yet: it was twilight still: but a dampness was already arising, the effect of the day's heat. The weather was very sultry, even for the close of August, the days being one blaze of sunshine. Adeline hastened in: she had been away not much more than five minutes, but she dreaded being missed.