see him again in three days!  The thought was too exciting even for her strong heart and frame and calm, self-governing nature!  And in defiance of reason and of will, her long-buried youthful love, her pure, earnest, single-hearted love, burst its secret sepulchre, and rejoiced through all her nature.  The darkness of the past was, for the time, forgotten.  Memory recalled no picture of unkindness, injustice or inconstancy.  Even the scene upon the beach was faded, gone, lost!  But the light of the past glowed around her—­their seaside strolls and woodland wanderings—­

“The still, green places where they met,
 The moonlit branches dewy wet,
 The greeting and the parting word,
 The smile, the embrace, the tone that made
 An Eden of the forest shade—­”

kindling a pure rapture from memory, and a wild longing from hope, that her full heart could scarce contain.

But soon came on another current of thought and feeling opposed to the first—­doubt and fear of the meeting.  For herself she felt that she could forget all the sorrows of the past; aye! and with fervent glowing soul, and flushed cheeks, and tearful eyes, and clasped hands, she adored the Father in Heaven that He had put no limit to forgiveness—­no! in that blessed path of light all space was open to the human will, and the heart might forgive infinitely—­and to its own measureless extent.

But how would Thurston meet her?  He had suffered such tortures from remorse that doubtless he would rejoice “with exceeding great joy” to find that the deed attempted in some fit of madness had really not been effected.  But his sufferings had sprung from remorse of conscience, not from remorse of love.  No! except as his deliverer, he would probably not be pleased to see her.  As soon as this thought had seized her mind, then, indeed, all the bitterer scenes in the past started up to life, and broke down the defenses reared by love, and faith, and hope, and let in the tide of anguish and despair that rolled over her soul, shaking it as it had not been shaken for many years.  And her head fell upon her bosom, and her hands were clasped convulsively, as she walked up and down the floor—­striving with herself—­striving to subdue the rebel passions of her heart—­striving to attain her wonted calmness, and strength, and self-possession, and at last praying earnestly:  “Oh, Father! the rains descend, and the floods come, and the winds blow and beat upon my soul; let not its strength fall as if built upon the sand.”  And so she walked up and down, striving and praying; nor was the struggle in vain—­once more she “conquered a peace” in her own bosom.

She turned her eyes upon little Angel.  The infant was drooping over one arm of her rocking-chair like a fading lily, but her soft, hazy eyes, full of vague sympathy, followed the lady wherever she went.

Marian’s heart smote her for her temporary forgetfulness of the child’s wants.  It was now twilight, and Marian rang for lights, and Angel’s milk and bread, which were soon brought.