The days flew by on wings, each wing a promise, and it was a week after we plighted our vows ere I felt ready to read that letter and hear what Louis had to say. Then something came to prevent, and another week had passed when Louis said: "My Emily, I must have a talk with your father and mother. I cannot feel quite satisfied, and it is only right they should be consulted, for you are their own good girl. I would wait for their hearts to say, 'take her,' if I waited years, but then, my Emily, it is neither giving nor taking, for every change that is right does not ask us ever to give ourselves or our loved ones away. I dislike that term." "You may wait, Louis; I will tell mother, and she can tell father." "No, no, Emily! It is I who ask for your hand, and is it not my privilege as well as duty?" "What a strange man you are growing to be, Louis! Hal couldn't bear the thought of telling mother or father his heart affairs, and I was the medium of communication between them." "He feels differently about it," said Louis, "and yet he has the tenderest heart I ever knew within the breast of a man." "He is a good brother, Louis. I could not ask a better." "Nor find one if you did." At that moment Matthias came in. Taking off his hat and saluting us in his accustomed way, he said: "'Pears like I'll have to ask some of yere to go out in de woods a piece--thar's a queer looking gal out thar, an' she's mighty nigh froze to death; she is, sartin." "Where is she, Matthias?" "Clean over thar; quite a piece, miss." "Near any house?" I said. "Wall, miss, she mout be two or three good steps from that thar brick-colored house." "Oh, clear over there? Well," I said, "I'll go over if Lou Desmonde will go with me." "I will go, only never call me that again. Matthias calls me Mas'r Louis, and he says I remind him of a mighty nice fellow down in South Carliny," said Louis. "Yis, sah, you does," said Matthias. Telling mother and Aunt Hildy what we were going out to find, we started. It was a very cold day, and through our warm clothing the winds of March pierced the marrow of our bones. We found the woman, who proved to be, as Matthias had said, nearly frozen. Louis took her right in his arms to the nearest shelter, Mr. Goodwin's, the brick-colored house, and his good, motherly wife had her put into the large west-room, where the spare bed was made so temptingly clean, and with such an airy feather mattress, that, light as she was, the poor girl sank into it almost out of sight. Matthias brought wood and made a fire on the hearth, and Mrs. Goodwin, Louis and I worked hard for an hour chafing her purple limbs, her swelled feet and hands, and at last she turned her head uneasily, and murmured: "The baby's dead--she is dead and I am going to her." Then a few words of home and some pictures. "Myself! myself!" she'd cry, "my picture; yes, my hair is beautiful; my golden curls, he said; and my baby's hair; let me put it here."