moans of love; and then blew up the other fires; and then back to her, and patted her hands, and kissed them with all his soul, and drew them to his bosom to warm them; and drew her head to his heart to warm her; and all with pretty moans of love, and fear, and pity; and the tears rained out of his eyes at sight of her helpless condition, and the tears fell upon her brow and her hands; and all this vitality and love soon electrified her; she opened her eyes, and smiled faintly, but such a smile, and murmured, “It’s you,” and closed her eyes again.

Then he panted out, “Yes, it is I,—­a friend.  I won’t hurt you—­I won’t tell you how I love you any more—­only live!  Don’t give way.  You shall marry who you like.  You shall never be thwarted, nor worried, nor made love to again; only be brave and live; don’t rob the world of the only angel that is in it.  Have mercy, and live!  I’ll never ask more of you than that.  Oh, how pale!  I am frightened.  Cursed fires, have you no warmth in you?” And he was at the bellows again.  And the next moment back to her, imploring her, and sighing over her, and saying the wildest, sweetest, drollest things, such as only those who love can say, in moments when hearts are bursting.

How now?  Her cheek that was so white is pink—­pinker—­red—­scarlet.  She is blushing.

She had closed her eyes at love’s cries.  Perhaps she was not altogether unwilling to hear that divine music of the heart, so long as she was not bound to reply and remonstrate—­being insensible.

But now she speaks, faintly, but clearly, “Don’t he frightened.  I promise not to die.  Pray don’t cry so.”  Then she put out her hand to him, and turned her head away, and cried herself, gently, but plenteously.

Henry, kneeling by her, clasped the hand she lent him with both his, and drew it to his panting heart in ecstasy.

Grace’s cheeks were rosy red.

They remained so a little while in silence.

Henry’s heart was too full of beatitude to speak.  He drew her a little nearer to the glowing fires, to revive her quite; but still kneeled by her, and clasped her hand to his heart.  She felt it beat, and turned her blushing brow away, but made no resistance:  she was too weak.

“Halloo!” cried a new voice, that jarred with the whole scene; and Mr. Coventry hobbled in sight.  He gazed in utter amazement on the picture before him.

CHAPTER XII.

Grace snatched her hand from Henry, and raised herself with a vigor that contrasted with her late weakness.  “Oh, it is Mr. Coventry.  How wicked of me to forget him for a moment.  Thank Heaven you are alive.  Where have you been?”

“I fell into the mountain stream, and it rolled me down, nearly to here.  I think I must have fainted on the bank.  I found myself lying covered with snow; it was your beloved voice that recalled me to life.”