She said to me through these days I was not happy.  “Wild flower, what troubles thee?” one day, and again, “Emily, my royal Emily, art thou sighing for wings?”

November came and passed, and the gates of the new year were opening, still all the way lay dark before me.  Night after night my tear-stained pillow told my sorrow mutely, and day after day I sighed.  Mother was not well, and I felt that everything was wrong.  I was worrying myself sick, I knew, and could not help it.

It was a cold, bitter day, and in my heart lay bitter thoughts when Matthias came over to tell us, that “Peg was right sick, ’pears like she’s done took sick all in a minit, onions and onions, mustard and mustard, an nothin’ don’t do no good.  Here’s a piece of paper I foun’ in de road, ‘pears like you mus’ want it,” and he handed it to me.

I put it in my pocket and went to ask Aunt Hildy what to do for Aunt Peg.  She proposed to go over, and Ben went with her.

While they were gone I read the paper, which proved to be a letter, evidently written to Mr. Benton, and the signature was plainly, “your heart-broken Mary,” I could only pick out half sentences, but read enough to show me the treachery and sorrow, aye, more, a life cursed with shame, and at the hands of Wilmur Benton.

“Thank God,” I cried aloud—­I was in the sitting-room alone—­and then tears fell hot and fast, and I sobbed and cried as if I had found a wide white path that led from the night of my discontent, out into the morning of the day called peace.  I could not stay there and cry, I must pass Clara’s door to go to my room, and throwing a shawl over my shoulders I rushed out, and fairly flew over the frozen ground to that dear old apple tree.  What a strange place to go to, standing under those bare limbs, or rather walking to and fro, but I could not help it!  This same old tree had heard my cries and seen my tears for years.  I covered my face with both hands, and wept aloud.  I could not have been there long, when I felt a presence, and Louis was beside me.

Putting an arm around me, he said tenderly, “Come in, Emily.”

“Oh, Louis!” I cried, “I cannot, they will see my face, what shall I do? how came you here?” and I still kept crying and sobbing as if my heart would break.

“Why Emily, my royal Emily, come into little mother’s room,—­she has lain down,—­and tell me why you weep.”

I yielded gratefully, not gracefully, and we were seated alone, all alone, and he was saying to me: 

“Emily, tell me what it is, you have troubled me so long, your eyes have grown so sad.  Oh!  Emily, my darling, may I not know your secret sorrow?  I can wait longer, my year has flown, and three months more, and still my heart is waiting; tell me your sorrow, and then let me say to you what I have waited in patience to repeat.”

It was not a dream, my heart beat like a bird, and I could tell him, only too gladly.  “Emily will do it.”