A deep blush mounted to his brow, and a fierce struggle between his love for Mary and his love for the wine-cup ensued.

The former conquered, and seizing the bottle he hurled it against the marble fire jamb, exclaiming, "I'll be a _man_, a sober man, and never shall the light of Mary's eyes grow dim with tears wept for a drunken husband!" Henry was growing eloquent, and lest the inspiration should leave him, he sat down and wrote to Mary, on paper what he could not tell her face to face.

Had there been a lingering doubt of her acceptance, he would undoubtedly have wasted at least a dozen sheets of the tiny gilt-edged paper, but as it was, one would suffice, for _she_ would not scrutinize his handwriting,--_she_ would not count the blots, or mark the omission of punctuating pauses.

She would almost say _yes_ before she read it.

So the letter, which contained a sincere apology for his uncivil treatment of her in former years, and an ardent declaration of love for her now, was written sealed, and directed, and then there was a gentle rap upon the door.