said 't warn't no use; an' they threw a blanket over us, an' there I laid tell the sun rose an' sparkled in the dew an' the green leaves an' the purple bunches, an' the air came frolickin' fresh an' sweet abeout us; an' though I'd knowed it long, layin' there in the dark, neow I see fur sartain thet there warn't no breath on them stiff lips, an' the forehead was cold uz the stuns beneath us, an' the eyes wuz fixed an' glazed in thet las' look uv love an' tortur' an' reproach thet he giv' me. They say I went distracted; an' I _du_ b'lieve I've be'n cracked ever sence." Here Aunt Mimy, who had told her whole story without moving a muscle, commenced rocking violently back and forth. "I don't often remember all this," says she, after a little, "but las' spring it all flushed over me; an' w'en I heerd heow Emerline'd be'n sick,--I hear a gre't many things ye do' no' nothin' abeout, children,--I thought I'd tell her, fust time I see her." "What made you think of it last spring?" asked Stephen. "The laylocks wuz in bloom," said Miss Mirny,--"the laylocks wuz in bloom." Just then mother came down with the apples, and some dip-candles, and a basket of broken victuals; and Miss Mimy tied her cloak and said she believed she must be going. And Stephen went and got his hat and coat, and said,-- "Miss Mimy, wouldn't you like a little company to help you carry your bundles? Come, Emmie, get your shawl." So I ran and put on my things, and Stephen and I went home with Aunt Mimy. "Emmie," says Stephen, as we were coming back, and he'd got hold of my hand in his, where I'd taken his arm, "what do you think of Aunt Mimy now?" "Oh," says I, "I'm sorry I've ever been sharp with her." "I don't know," said Stephen. "'Ta'n't in human nature not to pity her; but then she brought her own trouble on herself, you see." "Yes," said I. "I don't know how to blast rocks," says Stephen, when we'd walked a little while without saying anything,--"but I suppose there is something as desperate that I can do." "Oh, you needn't go to threatening me!" thinks I; and, true enough, he hadn't any need to. "Emmie," says he, "if you say 'No,' when I ask you to have me, I sha'n't ask you again." "Well?" says I, after a step or two, seeing he didn't speak. "Well?" says he. "I can't say 'Yes' or 'No' either, till you ask me," said I. He stopped under the starlight and looked in my eyes. "Emmie," says he, "did you ever doubt that I loved you?" "Once I thought you did," said I; "but it's different now." "I _do_ love you," said he, "and you know it." "Me, Stephen?" said I,--"with my face like a speckled sparrow's egg?" "Yes, you," said he; and he bent down and kissed me, and then we walked on.