Wearied in the conflict, tired nature at last gave way, and Mr. Emerson fell asleep in his chair.

Two hours of deep slumber tranquilized his spirit.  He awoke from this, put off his clothing and laid his head on his pillow.  It was late in the morning when he arose.  He had no difficulty now in penning a note to Mrs. Eager.  It was the work of a moment, and satisfactory to him in the first effort.

At twelve he called with a carriage for the lady, whom he found all ready to accompany him, and in the best possible state of mind.  Her smile, as he presented himself, was absolutely fascinating; and her voice seemed like a freshly-tuned instrument, every tone was so rich in musical vibration, and all the tones came chorded to his ear.

There were not many visitors at the exhibition rooms—­a score, perhaps—­but they were art-lovers, gazing in rapt attention or talking in hushed whispers.  They moved about noiselessly here and there, seeming scarcely conscious that others were present.  Gradually the number increased, until within an hour after they entered it was more than doubled.  Still, the presence of art subdued all into silence or subdued utterances.

Emerson was charmed with his companion’s appreciative admiration of many pictures.  She was familiar with art-terms and special points of interest, and pointed out beauties and harmonies that to him were dead letters without an interpreter.  They came, at last, to a small but wonderfully effective picture, which contained a single figure, that of a man sitting by a table in a room which presented the appearance of a library.  He held a letter in his hand—­a old letter; the artist had made this plain—­but was not reading.  He had been reading; but the words, proving conjurors, had summoned the dead past before him, and he was now looking far away, with sad, dreamy eyes, into the long ago.  A casket stood open.  Time letter had evidently been taken from this repository.  There was a miniature; a bracelet of auburn hair; a ring and a chain of gold lying on the table.  Mr. Emerson turned to the catalogue and read,

“WITH THE BURIED PAST.”

And below this title the brief sentiment—­

“Love never dies.”

A deep, involuntary sigh came through his lips and stirred the pulseless air around him.  Then, like an echo, there came to his ears an answering sigh, and, turning, he looked into the face of Irene!  She had entered the rooms a little while before, and in passing from picture to picture had reached this one a few moments after Mr. Emerson.  She had not observed him, and was just beginning to feel its meaning, when the sigh that attested its power over him reached her ears and awakened an answering sigh.  For several moments their eyes were fixed in a gaze which neither had power to withdraw.  The face of Irene had grown thinner, paler and more shadowy—­if we may use that term to express something not of the earth, earthy—­than it was when he looked upon it five years before.  But her eyes were darker in contrast with her colorless face, and had a deeper tone of feeling.