requires, or develops, is at once the most subtile and certain

chain of communication between impressible natures. Richard
Hilton, feeling that his years were numbered, had given up, in

despair, his boyish dreams, even before he understood them: his
fate seemed to preclude the possibility of love. But, as he gained

a little strength from the genial season, the pure country air, and
the release from gloomy thoughts which his rambles afforded, the

end was farther removed, and a future--though brief, perhaps, still
a FUTURE--began to glimmer before him. If this could be his

life,--an endless summer, with a search for new plants every
morning, and their classification every evening, with Asenath's

help on the shady portico of Friend Mitchenor's house,--he could
forget his doom, and enjoy the blessing of life unthinkingly.

The azaleas succeeded to the anemones, the orchis and trillium
followed, then the yellow gerardias and the feathery purple

pogonias, and finally the growing gleam of the golden-rods along
the wood-side and the red umbels of the tall eupatoriums in the

meadow announced the close of summer. One evening, as Richard, in
displaying his collection, brought to view the blood-red leaf of a

gum-tree, Asenath exclaimed--
"Ah, there is the sign! It is early, this year."

"What sign?" he asked.
"That the summer is over. We shall soon have frosty nights,

and then nothing will be left for us except the asters and gentians
and golden-rods."

Was the time indeed so near? A few more weeks, and this Arcadian
life would close. He must go back to the city, to its rectilinear

streets, its close brick walls, its artificial, constrained
existence. How could he give up the peace, the contentment, the

hope he had enjoyed through the summer? The question suddenly took
a more definite form in his mind: How could he give up Asenath?

Yes--the quiet, unsuspecting girl, sitting beside him, with her lap
full of the September blooms he had gathered, was thenceforth a

part of his inmost life. Pure and beautiful as she was, almost
sacred in his regard, his heart dared to say--"I need her and claim

her!"
"Thee looks pale to-night, Richard," said Abigail, as they took

their seats at the supper-table. "I hope thee has not taken cold."
III.

"Will thee go along, Richard? I know where the rudbeckias grow,"
said Asenath, on the following "Seventh-day" afternoon.

They crossed the meadows, and followed the course of the stream,
under its canopy of magnificent ash and plane trees, into a brake

between the hills. It was an almost impenetrable thicket, spangled
with tall autumnal flowers. The eupatoriums, with their purple

crowns, stood like young trees, with an undergrowth of aster
and blue spikes of lobelia, tangled in a golden mesh of dodder. A

strong, mature odor, mixed alike of leaves and flowers, and very
different from the faint, elusive sweetness of spring, filled the

air. The creek, with a few faded leaves dropped upon its bosom,
and films of gossamer streaming from its bushy fringe, gurgled over

the pebbles in its bed. Here and there, on its banks, shone the
deep yellow stars of the flower they sought.

Richard Hilton walked as in a dream, mechanically plucking a stem
of rudbeckia, only to toss it, presently, into the water.

"Why, Richard! what's thee doing?" cried Asenath; "thee has thrown
away the very best specimen."

"Let it go," he answered, sadly. "I am afraid everything else is
thrown away."

"What does thee mean?" she asked, with a look of surprised and
anxious inquiry.

"Don't ask me, Asenath. Or--yes, I WILL tell you. I must say
it to you now, or never afterwards. Do you know what a happy life

I've been leading since I came here?--that I've learned what life
is, as if I'd never known it before? I want to live, Asenath,--and

do you know why?"
"I hope thee will live, Richard," she said, gently and tenderly,

her deep-blue eyes dim with the mist of unshed tears.
"But, Asenath, how am I to live without you? But you can't

understand that, because you do not know what you are to me.
No, you never guessed that all this while I've been loving you more

and more, until now I have no other idea of death than not to see
you, not to love you, not to share your life!"

"Oh, Richard!"
"I knew you would be shocked, Asenath. I meant to have kept this

to myself. You never dreamed of it, and I had no right to disturb
the peace of your heart. The truth is told now,--and I cannot take

it back, if I wished. But if you cannot love, you can forgive me
for loving you--forgive me now and every day of my life."

He uttered these words with a passionatetenderness, standing on
the edge of the stream, and gazing into its waters. His slight

frame trembled with the violence of his emotion. Asenath, who had
become very pale as he commenced to speak, gradually flushed over

neck and brow as she listened. Her head drooped, the gathered
flowers fell from her hands, and she hid her face. For a few

minutes no sound was heard but the liquid gurgling of the water,
and the whistle of a bird in the thicket beside them. Richard

Hilton at last turned, and, in a voice of hesitating entreaty,
pronounced her name--

"Asenath!"
She took away her hands, and slowly lifted her face. She was pale,

but her eyes met his with a frank, appealing, tender expression,
which caused his heart to stand still a moment. He read no

reproach, no faintest thought of blame; but--was it pity?--was it
pardon?--or----

"We stand before God, Richard," said she, in a low, sweet,
solemn tone. "He knows that I do not need to forgive thee. If

thee requires it, I also require His forgiveness for myself."
Though a deeper blush now came to cheek and brow, she met his gaze

with the bravery of a pure and innocent heart. Richard, stunned
with the sudden and unexpected bliss, strove to take the full

consciousness of it into a being which seemed too narrow to contain
it. His first impulse was to rush forward, clasp her passionately

in his arms, and hold her in the embrace which encircled, for him,
the boundless promise of life; but she stood there, defenceless,

save in her holy truth and trust, and his heart bowed down and gave
her reverence.

"Asenath," said he, at last, "I never dared to hope for this. God
bless you for those words! Can you trust me?--can you indeed love

me?"
"I can trust thee,--I DO love thee!"

They clasped each other's hands in one long, clinging pressure. No
kiss was given, but side by side they walked slowly up the dewy

meadows, in happy and hallowed silence. Asenath's face became
troubled as the old farmhouse appeared through the trees.

"Father and mother must know of this, Richard," said she. "I am
afraid it may be a cross to them."

The same fear had already visited his own mind, but he answered,
cheerfully--

"I hope not. I think I have taken a new lease of life, and shall
soon be strong enough to satisfy them. Besides, my father is in

prosperous business."
"It is not that," she answered; "but thee is not one of us."

It was growing dusk when they reached the house. In the dim
candle-light Asenath's paleness was not remarked; and Richard's

silence was attributed to fatigue.
The next morning the whole family attended meeting at the