With these words, Martha stretched out her hand. Gilbert took and held it, bowing his head fondly over it, and inwardly thanking God that the test which his pride had exacted was over at last. He could reward her truth, spare her the willing sacrifice,--and he would. “Martha,” he said, “if I sometimes doubted whether you could share my disgrace, it was because I had bitter cause to feel how heavy it is to bear. God knows I would have come to you with a clean and honorable name, if I could have been patient to wait longer in uncertainty. But I could not tell how long the time might be,--I could not urge my mother, nor even ask her to explain”-- “No, no, Gilbert! Spare _her!”_ Martha interrupted. “I _have,_ Martha,--God bless you for the words!--and I _will_; it would be the worst wickedness not to be patient, now! But I have not yet told you”-- A loud halloo rang through the dusk. “It is Mark's voice,” said Martha; “answer him!” Gilbert shouted, and a double cry instantly replied. They had reached the cross-road from New-Garden, and Mark and Sally, who had been waiting impatiently for a quarter of an hour, rode to meet them. “Did you lose the road?” “Whatever kept you so long?” were the simultaneous questions. “My girth broke in jumping over the tree,” Martha answered, in her clear, untroubled voice. “I should have been thrown off, but for Gilbert's help. He had to give me his own girth, and so we have ridden slowly, since he has none.” “Take my breast-strap,” said Mark. “No,” said Gilbert, “I can ride Roger bareback, if need be, with the saddle on my shoulder.” Something in his voice struck Mark and Sally singularly. It was grave and subdued, yet sweet in its tones as never before; he had not yet descended from the solemn exaltation of his recent mood. But the dusk sheltered his face, and its new brightness was visible only to Martha's eyes. Mark and Sally again led the way, and the lovers followed in silence up the hill, until they struck the Wilmington road, below Hallowell's. Here Gilbert felt that it was best to leave them. “Well, you two are cheerful company!” exclaimed Sally, as they checked their horses. “Martha, how many words has Gilbert spoken to you this evening?” “As many as I have spoken to him,” Martha answered; “but I will say three more,--Good-night, Gilbert!” “Good-night!” was all he dared say, in return, but the pressure of his hand burned long upon her fingers. He rode homewards in the starlight, transformed by love and gratitude, proud, tender, strong to encounter any fate. His mother sat in the lonely kitchen, with the New Testament in her lap; she had tried to read, but her thoughts wandered from the consoling text. The table was but half-cleared, and the little old teapot still squatted beside the coals. Gilbert strove hard to assume his ordinary manner, but he could not hide the radiant happiness that shone from his eyes and sat upon his lips. “You've not had supper?” Mary Potter asked.