“But what an awful account I shall have to give,” added he, again casting his eyes on the book recording his solemn engagement with God.
“Dearest Fitzhenry!” said Emmeline, sinking on her knees beside him, “a God of mercy will forgive all.”
“Pray to him for me,” said he, in a low tone; “I fear I cannot. I never prayed!”
Emmeline shuddered, she seized his hand: “Oh! Fitzhenry, talk not so wildly; God is now calling you to him, shrink not from him.”
Fitzhenry pressed her hand; again took the prayer-book, and with a tremulous voice read these words:
“I, Ernest, take thee, Emmeline, to my wedded wife, to love and to cherish; and forsaking all other, keep myself only unto thee as long as we both shall live; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
The last words died on his lips, and closing his eyes, he sank back, seemingly both affected and exhausted. Emmeline was too much moved to speak: she pressed to her lips and to her heart, that hand now a second time given her—but in how different a manner!
From that day, Emmeline’s prayer-book was his constant companion. She saw his mind was deeply affected, and left the strong impression to work its own effect.