"This is my mother's wedding-ring," he said, kissing it. "My
Marguerite, am I to have no other pledge than this?"
She stooped a little till her forehead met his lips.
"Alas, dear love," she said, greatly agitated, "are we not doing
wrong? We have so long to wait!"
"My uncle used to say that adoration was the daily bread of patience,
--he spoke of Christians who love God. That is how I love you; I have
long mingled my love for you with my love for Him. I am yours as I am
His."
They remained for a few moments in the power of this sweet enthusiasm.
It was the calm, sincere effusion of a feeling which, like an
overflowing spring, poured forth its superabundance in little
wavelets. The events which separated these lovers produced a
melancholy which only made their happiness the keener, giving it a
sense of something sharp, like pain.
Felicie came back too soon. Emmanuel, inspired by that delightful
tact of love which discerns all feelings, left the sisters alone,
--exchanging a look with Marguerite to let her know how much this
discretion cost him, how hungry his soul was for that happiness so
long desired, which had just been consecrated by the betrothal of
their hearts.
"Come here, little sister," said Marguerite, taking Felicie round the
neck. Then, passing into the garden they sat down on the bench where
generation after generation had confided to listening hearts their
words of love, their sighs of grief, their meditations and their
projects.
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