Florence, you know not how many hours of bitterness and tears I have spent in my solitude for him. I ought not to have come with you to-day, for I had a presentiment of this. Go, dear Florence, and leave me alone with my heart till its wild beatings are hushed.”
There are times when grief is too deep and sacred to endure the presence of a spectator, and solitude is then a luxury to the sorrowing—so I obeyed.
The bright day was drawing to its close, and the last remnant of that long and motley train was filing through the street, when the bell was rung hastily, as if by an impatient hand. The servants were not to be found on an occasion like this, so I opened the door; a face, of which I had before caught a hasty glimpse, once more met my eye, and I knew that Ernest Vernon stood before me. “Is Alice! Mrs. Vernon, here?” asked he, and on my replying in the affirmative, followed me to the room where I had left her. I opened the door, and said gently, “Shall I come, Alice?” Without waiting for her reply, Ernest stepped forward and repeated, “Alice.” She hurriedly looked up, and with a cry of joy, sprang into his arms, and was clasped to his heart. There was no need of an explanation, for each read in the face of the other restored confidence, and full forgiveness of all the past.
