“Rosalie!  Rosalie! look back through the ten years that are gone; I am answering your letter of long ago with words; I have a thousand times answered them with my heart, till the thoughts which have crowded there, filled it almost to breaking.  We have met—­met at last—­you and I!  But did you call that a triumph when you stood in God’s house, and saw them lay their consecrating hands upon me?  Heaven forgive me!  I was thinking of you then—­and thinking, too, that if this honor was in any way to be considered a reward, the needful part was wanting—­you were not there!  Yet you were there, you have written me; ah! but not Rosalie, my wife, the woman I loved better than all on earth—­the acknowledged woman, her whose memory I have borne about with me till it was a needful part of my existence.  You were by when the people came to see me consecrated—­and I obeyed your call; I saw you when the people anointed you with the tears of their admiration and praise.  If you read my heart at all, to-day, you knew how I had suffered—­you saw that I had grown old in sorrow.  Was I mistaken to-night in the thought that you, too, had not been unmindful of our past; that you were not satisfied with the popular applause; that you, also, have been lonely, that you have wept; that you have trodden in the path of duty with weariness?

“There is but one barrier now in the wide world that shall interpose between us—­Rosalie, it is your own will.  If I was ever anything to you, I beseech you think calmly before you answer, and do not let your triumph, to-night, blind you to the fact which you once recognised, which can make us happy yet.  I trust you as in our younger days; nothing, nothing but your own words could convince me that you are not worthy to take the highest place among the ladies of this land.  Oh, let the remembrance that I have been faithful to you through all the past, plead for me, if your pride should rise up, to condemn me.  Let me come and plead with you, for I know not what I write.”

The answer returned to this letter was as follows:—­

“I learned long ago, the bar that prevented our union; it is in existence still, Duncan.  Your mother only shall decide if it be insurmountable.  I have never, even for a moment, doubted your faithfulness; and it has been to me an unspeakable comfort to know that none had supplanted me in your affections.  In the temptations, and struggles, and hardships, I have known, it has kept me above and beyond the world, and if the last night’s triumph proves to be but the opening of a new life for me on earth, the recollection of what you are, and that you care for me, will prove a rock of defence, and a stronghold of hope always.  Severed from, or united with you, I am yours for ever.”

Seven days after there was a marriage in the little church of that remote village, where Duncan Melville and Rosalie Sherwood passed their childhood.  Side by side they stood now, once again, where the baptismal service had long since been read for them, and the mother of the bishop gave the bride away!