“Yes, Lamora,” said he, sitting upright, and drawing her to him, “you must go home with me; you must be my wife; you will find nothing but kindness awaiting you; you will have the heart of your lover forever. You must; you shall go.” The beautiful head, with its wealth of black hair, was now resting unresistingly upon his shoulder. He gently raised it, and imprinted a kiss upon the warm cheek. “Answer me, Lamora,” he said, in the gentlest of voices, “do you love me, or do you feel indifferent toward me?” “_I love you; I can not help it!_” “Heaven bless you! who wants you to help it?” exclaimed the delighted Hammond, as he rained his kisses, and she smiled through her tears, and showed how perfect her happiness was, in confessing her love. “Lamora, _will_ you be mine? Will you go home with me?” She looked at him unflinchingly in the face, and a seraphic light seemed to suffuse her eyes and countenance as she answered: “Yes, I will go to your home with you and be yours.” “Ah! who on earth does not envy me!” exclaimed the overjoyed lover. “You are mine; your promise is given. You feel no regrets?” “No; none at all,” she answered, with the same bewitching sweetness. “I thank Providence for this,” said Hammond, fervently. “You have intrusted your happiness into my hands, and never, no, _never_ shall you regret it.” Ah! they were happy moments to both. It was “love’s young dream,” in all its measureless hight and depth; their cup was pressed down and running over. They talked and chatted, and billed and cooed, and replighted and revowed, as only young lovers can in the fulness of their hearts, and when an hour or two had slipped by in this delightful manner, then they began to discuss the matter practically. “Will you leave your friends, without acquainting them of your determination?” he inquired. “No; that would be cruel; they would never cease hunting and searching for me, and it would break Kipwan’s heart.” “Will you tell him all?” “Yes.” “Do you suppose he will object or attempt to dissuade you?” “He is too good a man to attempt either. He will feel sorrowful, and so shall I, at the separation from those who have been such friends to me all my life--but he will wish me good-speed upon my journey.” “He must be a good man indeed, and I should like to go into the village and take him by the hand,” said Hammond, who felt just then that he could take any one in the world by the hand. “No,” she replied; “do not show yourself in the village. You know why?” “No,” he answered, looking inquiringly at her. “In the first place, they are always uneasy at the approach of strangers, and then, when it became known that you are the cause of my leaving them, some of the younger members might not feel so particularly Christian toward you.” “I see; it shall be as you say. I will wait your own good time and pleasure, praying you to remember that the days will drag wearily until we turn our faces eastward.” “I shall not be long.”