“And Mr. Sylvester,” continued Mr. Stuyvesant, with nervous rapidity and a generous attempt to speak lightly, “there is a little lady here who is so shaken by the news, that nothing short of a word of reassurance on your part will comfort her.” Bertram’s eye followed that of Mr. Stuyvesant, and fell upon the blushing cheek of Cicely. With a flushing of his own brow, he stepped hastily forward. “Miss Stuyvesant!” he cried, and looking down in her face, forgot everything else in his infinite joy and satisfaction. “Yes,” announced the father with abrupt decision, “she is yours; you have fairly earned her.” Bertram bowed his head with irrepressible emotion, and for a moment the silence of perfect peace if not of awe, reigned over the apartment; but suddenly a low, determined “No!” was heard, and Bertram turning towards Mr. Stuyvesant, exclaimed, “You are very good, and the joy of this moment atones for many an hour of grief and impatience; but I have not earned her yet. The fact that Hopgood admits to having had something to do with the robbery, does not sufficiently exonerate the officers of the bank from all connection with the affair, to make it safe or honorable in me to unqualifiedly accept the inestimable boon of your daughter’s regard. Till the real culprit is in custody and the mystery entirely cleared away, my impatience must continue to curb itself. I love your daughter too dearly to bring her anything but the purest of reputations. Am I not right, Miss Stuyvesant?” She cast a glance at her father, and bowed her head. “You are right,” she repeated. And Mr. Stuyvesant, with a visible lightening of his whole aspect, took the young man by the hand, and with as much geniality as his nature would allow, informed him that he was at last convinced that his daughter had made no mistake when she expressed her trust in Bertram Sylvester. And in other eyes than Cicely’s, shone the light of satisfied love and unswerving faith. XLV. “THE HOUR OF SIX IS SACRED.” “Mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though its favorite seat be feeble woman’s breast.” —WORDSWORTH.