told you that she was married, and I showed you the letter which I had goaded her on to write. In the relapse which followed your reading of that letter I would have told you all, but you looked so gently and tenderly upon me, I could not bear to tell you what a wretch I was. Has my repentance come too late to either of you? Have I sinned past forgiveness? Oh! believe me, I have suffered enough in the agony of my unloved life—in the memory of those false words, which I fear have perjured my soul for ever.”
“No, Ellen; not for ever. Repentance never comes too late. God will forgive you, even as I know Gertrude and myself have already done—have we not, dear Gertrude?”
It was the first word of love, and Gertrude bent her head to conceal the warm blushes which crimsoned her face; but as she did so, she kissed the delicate hand of Ellen, which she still retained.
When they passed out of the grave-yard, Ellen and Gertrude each leaned upon an arm of Howard Beauchamp—Ellen still “sowing in tears,” and Gertrude and Howard “reaping in joy.”
