But even strong men are weak in woman's toils, and Hartley Emerson

was a captive.

There was to be a pleasure-party on one of the steamers that cut the

bright waters of the fair Hudson, and Emerson and the maiden, whose

face was now his daily companion, were to be of the number. He felt

that the time had come for him to speak if he meant to speak at

all--to say what was in his thought, or turn aside and let another

woo and win the lovely being imagination had already pictured as the

sweet companion of his future home. The night that preceded this

excursion was a sleepless one for Hartley Emerson. Questions and

doubts, scarcely defined in his thoughts before, pressed themselves

upon him and demanded a solution. The past came up with a vividness

not experienced for years. In states of

semi-consciousness--half-sleeping, half-waking--there returned to

him such life-like realizations of events long ago recorded in his

memory, and covered over with the dust of time, that he started from

them to full wakefulness, with a heart throbbing in wild tumult.

Once there was presented so vivid a picture of Irene that for some

moments he was unable to satisfy himself that all these ten years of

loneliness were not a dream. He saw her as she stood before him on

that ever-to-be-remembered night and said, "_I go!_" Let us turn

back and read the record of her appearance as he saw her then and

now: "She had raised her eyes from the floor, and turned them full upon

her husband. Her face was not so pale. Warmth had come back to the

delicate skin, flushing it with beauty. She did not stand before him

an impersonation of anger, dislike or rebellion. There was not a

repulsively attitude or expression. No flashing of the eyes, nor

even the cold, diamond glitter seen a little while before. Slowly

turning away, she left the room. But to her husband she seemed still

standing there, a lovely vision. There had fallen, in that instant

of time, a sunbeam, which fixed the image upon his memory in

imperishable colors."

Emerson groaned as he fell back upon his pillow and shut his eyes.

What would he not then have given for one full draught of Lethe's

fabled waters.

Morning came at last, its bright beams dispersing the shadows of

night; and with it came back the warmth of his new passion and his

purpose on that day, if the opportunity came, to end all doubt, by

offering the maiden his hand--we do not say heart, for of that he

was not the full possessor.

The day opened charmingly, and the pleasure-party were on the wing

betimes. Emerson felt a sense of exhilaration as the steamer passed

out from her moorings and glided with easy grace along the city

front. He stood upon her deck with a maiden's hand resting on his

arm, the touch of which, though light as the pressure of a flower,

was felt with strange distinctness. The shadows of the night, which

had brooded so darkly over his spirit, were gone, and only a dim

remembrance of the gloom remained. Onward the steamer glided,

sweeping by the crowded line of buildings and moving grandly along,

through palisades of rock on one side and picturesque landscapes on

the other, until bolder scenery stretched away and mountain barriers

raised themselves against the blue horizon.




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