So I went over the river, over the Long Bridge where I first met Her, and from the arch of which I hailed the light in her window, the beacon that had beckoned me all the years while two oceans surged between us; under the wild-rose hedge where I had dreamed of her as a boy, and presently I stood upon the broad stone steps of her father's house, and rang the bell.
An old servant opened the door, and, with a grave nod of recognition, showed me into the room to the left,—the very one where I had taken leave of her six years before,—then went unasked to call "Miss Elisabeth." It was New Year's Eve, and they were having a card party in the parlor.
"Oh, it isn't—?" said she, with her heart in her mouth, pausing on the threshold and looking appealingly at the maid. It was the same who years before had told her how I kept vigil under her window.
"Yes! it is!" she said, mercilessly, "it's him," and she pushed her in.
[Illustration: Bringing the Loved up Flowers]
I think it was I who spoke first.
"Do you remember when the ice broke on the big ditch and I had you in my arms, so, lifting you over?"
"Was I heavy?" she asked, irrelevantly, and we both laughed.
Father's reading-lamp shone upon the open Bible when I returned.
He wiped his spectacles and looked up with a patiently questioning
"Well, my boy?" Mother laid her hand upon mine.
"I came home," I said unsteadily, "to give you Elisabeth for a daughter. She has promised to be my wife."