ong and cool lay the shadows on the grass, one by one the bright, beautiful stars arose in the sky, up and up sailed the "lady moon," smiling down with her serene face on the trio sitting in the moonlight in the humble parlor of that little cot by the sea.
No light but that of the cloudless moon, no light but the beaming glances from eyes bright with joy—no other light was needed. By Miss Jerusha's side sat Georgia—not Georgia, the radiant vision of the ball-room, Juno-like in her queenly beauty, but the humble, gentle loving girl, meek in her great happiness. One wrinkled yellow hand of the venerable spinster lay in the small dark hands blazing with gems, and held them fast as if she would have held them there forever, while her eyes never for an instant wandered from the sweet smiling face.
And at Georgia's feet knelt another—a vision in robes snowy white, with the sweetest, fairest face ever sun shone or moon beamed on—one who looked like a stray seraph in her white garments, and floating golden curls, and sweet, beautiful violet eyes. Dear little Emily Murray, sweeter and fairer than ever she looked nestling there, crying and laughing together, and clinging to Georgia as though she would never let her go again.
"And to think you should have seen so much, and come through such strange scenes!" sobbed Emily, laughing at the same time; "to think you should have found a brother, and traveled all over Europe, and then come back and found yourself the wife of the greatest man of the age! Oh, dear me!" said little Emily, laughing and swallowing a sob, "it is so funny and so strange to find our Georgia back here in the old cottage again."
"But it's very nice—now ain't it, Emily?" said Miss Jerusha, complacently.
"Nice! I guess it is," said Emily, clasping Georgia tighter. "Oh, Georgia! I've lain awake night after night, crying and thinking about you, and wondering what had become of you, and oh! so frightened lest you should be dead—drowned, or frozen, or something; and in the stormy nights all that long winter I never could sleep for fear you might be out in the frost and cold, without a home or friends. Oh, Georgia! I did feel so restless and miserable all that winter, for fear, while I was warm and sheltered, you might be lying in the bleak streets cold and dead." And little Emily sobbed.
"Dear little Emily!" said Georgia, kissing her.
"And, oh, it is so nice to think you have become a devout Christian," said Emily, changing from sobbing to laughing again, "and I am so glad. Oh, dear me! how funny everything happens, to be sure. And Charley Wildair, too," pursued Emily; "I am sure I never thought he would be a clergyman; but I am very, very glad. Oh, I am so happy," said Emily, laughing, and squeezing Georgia's waist, "that I don't know what to do with myself."
"Nor me neither, I don't now, railly," said Miss Jerusha, who was the very picture of composure.
"Dear Miss Jerusha," said Georgia caressingly, "and won't you forgive Richmond—he really does not merit your anger, and wants to be forgiven and be friends with you again so much. Please do."