“Jane,” said I, and my voice sounded strange even to myself, “I hope you are not trifling;—­you never would dare, did you know the state I am in, that I have been in for—­oh, so long!  But I can’t have hidden all my love.  Can’t you see how my life almost is hanging upon your answer?  Jane, do you love me, and will you be my wife?”

“Henry,” she replied, softly, but firmly, “I do love you.  I have loved you a long, long time, and I shall be proud to be your wife, if—­you think me worthy.”

It was more than I could bear.  The sleepless nights, the days of almost entire fasting, together with all my troubles, had been too much for me.  I was weak in body and in mind.

“Oh, Jane!” was all I could say.  Then, leaning my head upon her shoulder, I cried like a child.  It didn’t seem childish then.

“Oh, but, Henry, I won’t, then, if you feel so badly about it,” said she, half laughing.  Then, changing her tone, she begged me to become calm.  But in vain.  The barriers were broken down, and the tide of emotion, long suppressed, must gush forth.  She evidently came to this conclusion.  She stood quiet and silent, and at last began timidly stroking my hair.  I shall never forget the first touch of her hand upon my forehead.  It soothed me, or else my emotion was spent; for, after a while, I became quite still.

“Oh, Jane,” I whispered, “my sorrow I could bear; but this strange happiness overwhelms me.  Can it be true?  Oh, it is a fearful thing to be so happy!  How came you to love me, Jane?  You are so beautiful, and I—­I am so”——­

“You are so good, Henry!” she exclaimed, earnestly,—­“too good for me!  You are a true-hearted, noble soul, worthy the love of any woman.  If you weren’t so bashful,” she continued, in a lower tone, “I should not say so much; but—­do you suppose nobody is happy but yourself?  There is somebody who scarcely more than an hour ago was weeping bitter tears, feeling that the greatest joy of her life was gone forever.  But now her joy has returned to her, her heart is glad, she trembles with happiness.  Oh, Henry, ‘it is a fearful thing to be so happy!’”

I could not answer; so I drew her close up to me.  She was mine now, and why should I not press her closely to my heart,—­that heart so brimful of love for her?  There was a little bench at the foot of the apple-tree, and there I made her sit down by me and answer the many eager questions I had to ask.  I forgot all about the dampness and the evening air.  She told how her mother had liked me from the first,—­how they were informed, by some few acquaintances they had made in the village, of my early disappointment, and also of the peculiar state of mind into which I was thrown by those early troubles; but when she began to love me she couldn’t tell.  She had often thought I cared for her,—­mentioned the day when I found her at my mother’s bedside, also the day of the funeral; but so well had I controlled my feelings that she was never sure until that night.