“Ask your own heart,” was his reply,
uttered in a tremulous voice.

I felt my bosom heave—was agitated,
trembling I knew not why—but I made
no answer.

There was a long and painful pause.

“The night is getting chill,” I said at
length, for want of something better to
say; “father is waiting for us; let us go
home.”

I led the way down the path, and he
followed moodily, without a word. As
he helped me over the stile, I saw that
his face was pale, his lips tightly compressed.
And when he came into the
presence of his father, he replied to the
old man's kind questions in a vacant and
abstracted manner. I bade him “good-night!”
at last; he answered me, but
added in a low tone, inaudible to the old
man, “Young, and rich, and beautiful,
you are beyond the reach of—a country
clergyman.”

The next morning, while we were at
breakfast, a letter came; it was from my
mother; to-morrow she would come and
take me from the cottage!

The letter dropt from the old man's
hand, and Ernest, rising abruptly from
the table, rushed from the room.

And I was to leave the home of my
happiest hours, and go forth into the
great world! The thought fell like a
thunderbolt upon every heart in the cottage.

After an hour, Ernest met me on the
porch; he was very pale.

“Frank,” said he kindly, “to-morrow
you will leave us for ever. Would you
not like to see once more the place yonder”—
he pointed across the river to the
Palisades—“where we spent so many
happy hours last summer?” He spoke
of that dear nook, high up among the
rocks, encircled by trees, and canopied
by vines, where we had indeed spent
many a happy hour.

I made no reply, but put on my sun-bonnet
and took his arm, and in a little
while we were crossing the river, he
rowing while I sat in the stern. It was
a beautiful day. We arrived at the opposite
shore, at a point where the perpendicular
wall of the Palisades is for a mile
or more broken by a huge and sloping
hill, covered with giant forest trees. Together
we took the serpentine path,
which, winding towards all points of the
compass, led to the top of the Palisades.
The birds were singing, broad forest
leaves and hanging vines quivered in the
sun, the air was balmy, and the day the
very embodiment of the freshness and
fragrance of June. As we wound up the
road, (whose brown gravelled surface contrasted
with the foliage,) we saw the sunlight
streaming in upon the deep shadows
of the wood, and heard from afar the lulling
music of a waterfall. Departing
from the beaten road, we wandered
among the forest trees, and talked together
as gladly and as familiarly as in
other days. There we wandered for
hours, now in sunlight, now in shadow,
now resting upon the brow of some mosscovered
rock, and now stopping beside a
spring of clear cold water, half-hidden by
thick green leaves. As noon drew near,
we ascended to the top of the forest

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hill, and, passing through a wilderness of
tangled vines, came suddenly upon a rude
farm-house, one story high, built of logs,
whose dark surface contrasted with the
verdure of the garden and the foliage
of the overshadowing tree. It was the
same as in the year before. There was
the well-pole rising above its roof and
the well-bucket moist with clear cold
water, and in the doorway stood the farmer's
dame, who had often welcomed us
to her quiet home.

“Bless me!” how handsome my children
have grown!” she cried; “and how's
the good dominie? Come in, come in,
the folks are all away in the fields; come
in, and rest you, and have some pie and
milk, and”—she paused for breath—“and
some dinner.”

The good dame would take no denial,
and we sat down to dinner with her. I
can see the scene before me now,—the
carefully sanded floor, the old clock in
the corner, the cupboard glistening with
the burnished pewter, the neatly spread
table, the broad hearth, covered with
green boughs, and the open windows,
with the sunbeams playing through the
encircling vines; and then the good
dame, with her high cap, round, good-humored
face, and spectacles resting on
the bridge of her hooked nose. As we
broke the homemade bread with her, we
were as gay as larks.

“Well, I do like to see young folks enjoy
themselves,” said the dame. “You
don't know how often I have thought of
you since you were here last summer. I
have said, and I will say it, that a handsomer
brother and sister I never yet did
see.”

“But you mistake,” said Ernest; “we
are not brother and sister.”

“Only cousins,” responded the dame,
surveying us attentively; “well I'm glad
of it. For there is no law agin cousins
marrying, and you'd make such a handsome
couple.” And she laughed until
her sides shook.

Leaving the farm-house, we bent our
way to the Palisades again. We had
been gay and happy all the morning;
now we became thoughtful. We entered
a narrow path, and presently came
upon the dear nook where we had spent
so many happy hours. It was a quiet
space of green sward and velvet moss,
encircled, on all sides save one, by the
trunks of giant forest trees; the oak, the
tulip, the poplar and the sycamore—
which arose like rugged columns, their
branches forming a roof far overhead.
Half way between the sward and the
branches, hung a display of vines, swinging
in the sunlight, and showering blossoms
and fragrance in the summer air.
Light shrubbery grew between the massive
trunks of the trees, and in one part
of the glade a huge rock arose, its summit
projecting over the sward, and forming
a sort of canopy, or shelter, for a
rustic seat fashioned of oaken boughs.
Looking upward through the drapery of
vines and the roof of boughs, only one
glimse of blue sky was visible. Toward
the east the glade was open, and over the
tops of the forest trees, (which rose from
the glen beneath,) you saw the river, the
distant village and my cottage home
shining in the sun. At the foot of the
oak, which formed one of the portals of
the glade, was a clear cold spring, resting
in a basin of rock, and framed in
leaves and flowers. Altogether, the
dear nook of the forest was worthy of
June.

For a moment we surveyed the quiet
scene—thought of the many happy hours
we had spent there, in the previous summer—
and then, turning our faces to the
east, we stood hand linked in hand, gazing
over forest trees and river, upon our
far-off cottage home.

“Does it not look beautiful as it shines
there in the sun?” I said.

Ernest at first did not reply, but turned
his gaze full upon me. His face was
flushed and there was a strange fire in
his eyes.

“To-morrow you leave that home for
ever!” he exclaimed; and I trembled, I
knew not why, at the sound of his voice.
“I will never see you again.” He dropped
my hand and turned his face away
I saw his head fall on his breast, and saw
that breast heave with agitation. Urged
by an impulse I could not control, I
glided to his side, put my hand upon his
arm, and looked up into his face.

“Ernest,” I whispered.

He turned to me, for a moment regarded
me with a look of intense passion,
and then caught me to his heart. His
arm was around me, my bosom heaved
against his breast, his kiss was on my
lips—the first kiss since childhood, and

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O how different from the kiss which a
brother presses on a sister's lips!

“Frank, I love you! Many beautiful
women have I seen, but there is that in
your gaze, your voice, your very presence,
which is heaven itself to me. I
cannot live without you, and cannot,
cannot think of losing you without madness.
Frank, be mine, be my wife! Be
mine, and the house which shines yonder
in the sunlight shall be ours! Frank,
for God's sake, say you love me!”

He sank at my feet and clasped my
knees with his trembling hands. O, the
joy, the rapture of that moment! As I
saw his face upraised to mine, I felt that
I loved him with all my soul, that I
could die for him. Reaching forth my
hands, I drew him gently to his feet,
and fell upon his breast and called him
“husband!” Would I had died there,
on his bosom, even as his lips met mine,
and the words “my wife!” trembled on
my ear! Would I had at that moment
fallen dead upon his breast!

Even as he gathered me to his bosom
the air all at once grew dark; looking
overhead we saw a vast cloud rolling up
the heavens—dark as midnight, yet
fringed with sunlight. Onward, on it
rolled; the air grew darker, darker; an
ominous thunder-peal broke over our
heads, and rolled away among the gorges
of the hills. Then the glade grew
dark as night. We could not see each
other's faces. For a moment our distant
home shone in sunlight, and then the
eastern sky was wrapt in clouds, the
river hidden by driving rain. Trembling
with fright I clung to Ernest's neck; he
bore me to the bench in the shadow of
the rock; another thunder-peal, and a
flash of lightning that blinded me. I
buried my face in his bosom to hide my
eyes from that awful glare. The tempest
which had arisen so suddenly—even as
we exchanged our first vows—was now
upon us and in power. The trees rocked
to the blast. The distant river was now
dark, and now one mass of sheeted flame.
Peal on peal the thunder burst over our
heads, and as one peal died away in distant
echoes, another more awful seemed
hurled upon us from the very zenith.
And amid the darkness and glare of that
awful storm, I clung to Ernest's neck,
my bosom beating against his heart, and
we repeated our vows, and talked of
our marriage, and laid plans for our future.

“Frank, my heart is filled with an
awful foreboding,” he said, and his voice
was so changed and husky that I raised
my head from his bosom, and even in
the darkness sought to gaze upon his
face. A lightning flash came and was
gone, but by that momentary glare I
saw his countenance agitated in every
lineament.

“What mean you, Ernest?”

“You will leave our home to-morrow
and never return—never! The sunshine
which was upon us, as we exchanged our
vows, was in a moment succeeded by the
blackness of the awful tempest. A bad
omen, Frank, a dark prophecy of our
future. There is only one way to turn
the omen of evil into a prophecy of
good!”

He drew me closer in his arms and
bent his lips to my ear—“Be mine, and
now! Be mine! Let the thunder-peal
be our marriage music—this forest glade
our marriage couch!”

I was faint, trembling, but I sprang
from his arms, and stood erect in the
centre of the glade. My dark hair fell
to my shoulders. A flash of lightning
lit up my form, clad in snow-white. As
wildly, as completely as I loved him, I
felt my eyes flash with indignation.

“Words like these to a girl who has
been reared under your father's roof?”

He fell at my feet—besought my forgiveness
in frantic tones—and bathed
my hands with his tears.

I fainted in his arms.

When I unclosed my eyes again, I
found myself pure and virgin in the
arms of my plighted husband. The
clouds were parting, the tempest was
over, and the sun shone out once more.
Every leaf glittered with diamond drops.
The last blast of the storm was passing
over the distant river and through the
driving clouds; I saw the sunlight shining
once more upon our cottage home.

“Forgive me, Frank! forgive me!” he
cried, bending passionately over me.

“See!—your bad omen has been
turned into good!” I cried joyfully.

“First, the sunshine; then, the storm;
but now the sun shines clear again”—
and I pointed to the diamond drops glittering
in the sun.

“And you will be true to me, Frank?”

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