There was no remembrance of coldness or imagined wrong--pride did not even struggle to lift its head--love conquered everything.

The young man stood still, from weariness or surprise, ere she reached him.

As she drew near, Irene saw that his face was not only pale, but thin and wasted.
"Oh, Hartley! dear Hartley!" came almost wildly from her lips, as she flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him over and over again, on lips, cheeks and brow, with an ardor and tenderness that no maiden delicacy could restrain.

"Have you been sick, or hurt?
Why are you so pale, darling ?" "I have been ill for a week--ever since I was last here," the young man replied, speaking in a slow, tremulous voice.
"And I knew it not!" Tears were glittering in her eyes and pressing out in great pearly beads from between the fringing lashes.

"Why did you not send for me, Hartley ?" And she laid her small hands upon each side of his face, as you have seen a mother press the cheeks of her child, and looked up tenderly into his love-beaming eyes.
"But come, dear," she added, removing her hands from his face and drawing her arm within his--not to lean on, but to offer support.
"My father, who has, with me, suffered great anxiety on your account, is waiting your arrival at the house." Then, with slow steps, they moved along the upward sloping way, crowding the moments with loving words.
And so the storm passed, and the sun came out again in the firmament of their souls.