“Arthur, ’you love me, and love takes from love.  It gives all it has and can, and is content.’  It is a blessed gospel, Arthur.  Think how much I owe you—­gladly owe you;—­the obligation was not a burthen; but you would not even let me express my gratitude.  Think of your dreadful letter.  When you knelt and prayed for me, I would have put my lips to yours, had you been near me.  I let you see my very heart in every line I wrote you, and you turned from me so coldly, and proudly, and blindly, and I could see you were so unhappy.  Oh, I would not have been worthy to be carried a step in your arms, if I had not done the last thing in my power.  I went and saw Mr. Wade, and father promised me the money, and Mr. Wade arranged it all for me; and dear, blessed Mr. Windsor is not a fraud; he loves you himself, and loved your brother.”

“Forgive me, forgive me, Julia,” said Bart, who had sunk on the leaves at her feet, and was resting his head against her bosom, with one arm of hers about his neck; “and this watch?”

“That I purchased and had engraved, and perhaps—­what would you have done had you seen my name?”

“Come straight to you at once.”

“And you are content?”

“Perfectly; you love me, and I accept the gospel of love,” and he looked up with his clear, open brow and honest, transparent eyes, and gazing down into them and into the depths of his soul, seeming to see great happiness, dimmed a little with regret, she bent her head and put her lips to his, and tears fell from her eyes once again upon his face.

“Arthur,” again lifting her head, “how glad I am that this is all told you now, when you are tenderest to me, and I have no secret to carry and fear, nothing to do now but to make you happy, and be so happy.  Sometime, soon, you will tell me all your precious heart history, keeping nothing from me.”

“Everything, everything, Julia! and something I may say now—­I don’t want to leave this sweet, sacred place, without a word about my letter.  It was written in utter hopelessness of your love.  The occurrences of that strange night had replaced me within the reach of my own esteem.”

“How had you ever lost that, Arthur?”

“By my own folly.  I loved you when I came back—­before I went away—­always.  It was a dream, a sweet, delicious dream—­that inspired poetry, and kindled ambition, but was purely unselfish.  I had not a thought or a hope of a return.  This passion came to possess me, to occupy my mind, and absorb my whole being.  I knew it could not in the nature of things be returned.”

“Arthur!”

“And I rushed into your presence, and declared it, and received what I expected and needed—­though it paralyzed me, but my pride came to my rescue, and what strength I had; I went away humiliated, and aroused myself and found places on which I could stand, and strength to work.  So far as you were concerned, Julia, I only hoped that in the far future, if you ever recalled my mad words—­”