When the lovers were left alone Emmanuel held out his hand to Marguerite, who did not refuse to put her right hand into it.  They rose with one impulse and moved towards their bench in the garden; but as they reached the middle of the parlor, the lover could not resist his joy, and, in a voice that trembled with emotion, he said,—­

“I have three hundred thousand francs of yours.”

“What!” she cried, “did my poor mother entrust them to you?  No? then where did you get them?”

“Oh, my Marguerite! all that is mine is yours.  Was it not you who first said the word ’ourselves’?”

“Dear Emmanuel!” she exclaimed, pressing the hand which still held hers; and then, instead of going into the garden, she threw herself into a low chair.

“It is for me to thank you,” he said, with the voice of love, “since you accept all.”

“Oh, my dear beloved one,” she cried, “this moment effaces many a grief and brings the happy future nearer.  Yes, I accept your fortune,” she continued, with the smile of an angel upon her lips, “I know the way to make it mine.”

She looked up at the picture of Van Claes as if calling him to witness.  The young man’s eyes followed those of Marguerite, and he did not notice that she took a ring from her finger until he heard the words:—­

“From the depths of our greatest misery one comfort rises.  My father’s indifference leaves me the free disposal of myself,” she said, holding out the ring.  “Take it, Emmanuel.  My mother valued you—­she would have chosen you.”

The young man turned pale with emotion and fell on his knees beside her, offering in return a ring which he always wore.

“This is my mother’s wedding-ring,” he said, kissing it.  “My Marguerite, am I to have no other pledge than this?”

She stooped a little till her forehead met his lips.

“Alas, dear love,” she said, greatly agitated, “are we not doing wrong?  We have so long to wait!”

“My uncle used to say that adoration was the daily bread of patience, —­he spoke of Christians who love God.  That is how I love you; I have long mingled my love for you with my love for Him.  I am yours as I am His.”

They remained for a few moments in the power of this sweet enthusiasm.  It was the calm, sincere effusion of a feeling which, like an overflowing spring, poured forth its superabundance in little wavelets.  The events which separated these lovers produced a melancholy which only made their happiness the keener, giving it a sense of something sharp, like pain.

Felicie came back too soon.  Emmanuel, inspired by that delightful tact of love which discerns all feelings, left the sisters alone, —­exchanging a look with Marguerite to let her know how much this discretion cost him, how hungry his soul was for that happiness so long desired, which had just been consecrated by the betrothal of their hearts.

“Come here, little sister,” said Marguerite, taking Felicie round the neck.  Then, passing into the garden they sat down on the bench where generation after generation had confided to listening hearts their words of love, their sighs of grief, their meditations and their projects.  In spite of her sister’s joyous tone and lively manner, Felicie experienced a sensation that was very like fear.  Marguerite took her hand and felt it tremble.