De Marke staggered back. The name of his lost wife from those lips, and spoken in bitterness, brought a terrible pang with it. At last he spoke; but it was in a low, broken voice, that went to her heart. “There was poverty and great suffering in Louisa’s death but no shame, Mrs. Oakley. She was my wife. I was absent, a minor and helpless; but had I known that she was in danger or suffering from any cause, I would have saved her at the risk of my life.” “Then it was not neglect—it was not from wanton cruelty that you left her?” questioned the widow, drawing gently toward him. “Sit down with me, lady; it is a sad story. I have been to blame, but not criminal. Will you listen to me?” They sat down together in the dim parlor, and he told her everything, even the first love which had grown strong in his boyhood; and all its painful results were fully revealed. At first she listened to him with a degree of proud reserve; but as he went on to lay his heart before her, the love-light came back to her eyes, and tears of gentle grief stole up through that light and trembled softly there. Her hand crept to his, timidly asking pardon for the harsh thoughts that had melted away with the honest tones of his voice. “And now,” he said, closing his hand firmly over hers, “can you forgive the rashness of my youth? Can you trust, can you love me?” She did not answer; but the tears that stood upon her cheek seemed like dew-drops upon a damask rose. She bent her head toward him, half in shame, half in love, like a flower heavy with rain. He gathered her softly to his bosom, his hand was pressed caressingly on one flushed cheek, the other lay close to his heart. “Oh, I was sure of it. Love like mine—so deep, so faithful—could not be wholly without a return. Tell me, dear one, is this not true?” “I love you. Indeed, indeed, I love you?” It is impossible to say how many times, and in how many forms, this one sentence was repeated, before the two parted: but one thing is certain, he had not been gone half an hour before both of them were restless to repeat every word of it again. After he was gone, the happy lady wandered forth into the grounds, for the rooms of her dwelling seemed altogether too small for the breadth and glory of her happiness. She longed for the open air, the free winds, anything that spoke to her of the heaven which lived in her own heart. As she passed through the flower-garden, a sob reached her from behind a honeysuckle arbor near the path. Any sound of grief was discord to her then, so she turned aside, resolved to make everything happy on that blissful day. She entered the arbor, and there, crouching down upon the tessellated floor, was poor little Edward, complaining to himself and sobbing as if that dear little heart were quite broken. How her conscience smote her then! How quick and fast the tears came rushing to her eyes. “Eddie, Eddie, darling!”