“Dear,” said I, “don’t drink so much tea; it’s very bad for you, you will never sleep tonight.”

“No,” said he; “I am sure I couldn’t sleep anyway.  I think I shan’t stay here, Emilia, if you don’t mind.  I feel very impatient to see my father; the night is fine, I shall walk over to the Cottage, and take him by surprise.”

I was just looking at him, wondering how to meet this mood, when there came a light tap at the window, a French window that opened on to the lawn.

“Hark!” said I.

We listened; again it came, again; and then a little voice calling, “Emilia!  Emilia!”

“It is Constance!” I cried, and, springing to my feet, I flung open curtain and shutter and window.

There she stood in the dark, with the light of the room upon her.  She was in black, with a dark shawl wrapped round her head; I could see nothing clearly save the white, outstretched hands, the pale sweet face, with its halo of burnished curls.

She sprang towards me with a little sob, and we laughed and cried together as I clasped her to me, covering her beloved face with kisses.  I was still holding her fast when she perceived Gabriel; from the stronghold of my arms, with her head still resting on my bosom, she turned towards him and held out her hand.  I looked neither at him nor at her, but, bending away, laid my cheek upon her curls.

And it was thus they met again.

Of the days that immediately followed, there is not much to tell.  Any doubt I might have entertained as to the continuance of their mutual passion vanished swiftly and entirely.  The path of duty lay very clear before me.

I saw more of Constance than of Gabriel in those days; we were almost always together, and he avoided us.  Richard Norton, who had greatly aged in the year of our absence, was so happy in his son that Gabriel had every excuse for spending the greater part of his time at the Cottage.  Indeed, he usually left me directly after breakfast, and did not return until supper-time.

He wrote a great deal, out in the woods and in his old room.  The poem was approaching completion, and this, in fact, was the reason why for fifteen days I deferred the execution of my purpose.

The sufferings we all three experienced daily at this time, when it was impossible to entirely avoid each other’s presence, were endurable to me, and I sought to help Constance to bear them.  To him they were, so to speak, a source of inspiration; and I therefore determined to let things run their course until the last line should be written.

On the fourth of October,—­it was Saturday,—­I, having a headache, did not get up to breakfast, and Gabriel left before nine o’clock for the Thatched Cottage.  My sweet Constance spent the entire morning with me.  She had brought a hat to trim, but the work did not proceed.  It was a black felt hat, I remember, and I trimmed it for her.  She herself was in one of her childlike moods, winsome and gay atop of the sorrow that had made her pale cheek paler, and set blue rings about her dear eyes.