“Yes, of the future, Irene.  Shall it be as the past? or have we both come up purified from the fire?  Has it consumed the dross, and left only the fine gold?  I can believe it in your case, and hope that it is so in mine.  But this I do know, Irene:  after suffering and trial have done their work of abrasion, and I get down to the pure metal of my heart, I find that your image is fixed there in the imperishable substance.  I did not hope to meet you again in this world as now—­to look into your face, to hold your hand, to listen to your voice as I have done this day—­but I have felt that God was fitting us through earthly trial, for a heavenly union.  We shall be one hereafter, dear Irene—­one and for ever!”

The strong man broke down.  His voice fell into low sobs—­tears blinded his vision.  He groped about for the hand of Irene, found it, and held it wildly to his lips.

Was it for a loving woman to hold back coldly now?  No, no, no!  That were impossible.

“My husband!” she said, tenderly and reverently, as she placed her saintly lips on his forehead.

There was a touching ceremonial at Ivy Cliff on the next day—­one never to be forgotten by the few who were witnesses.  A white-haired minister—­the same who, more than twenty years before, had said to Hartley Emerson and Irene Delancy, “May your lives flow together like two pure streams that meet in the same valley,”—­again joined their hands and called them “husband and wife.”  The long, dreary, tempestuous night had passed away, and the morning arisen in brightness and beauty.

THE END.