not seen the paragraph, and would not see it. He could tell her that
the obstacle to his happiness had been removed--that 'twas no longer a
sin for him to think of her or seek to make her his wife. All this he
would say to her, but nothing more.

And all this he did say to her in the summer-house at the foot of the
garden, where he found her just as the sun was setting. And Rosamond
listened eagerly--never questioning him of the past, or caring to hear
of it. She was satisfied to know that she might love him now, and with
his arm around her, she sat there alone with him until the August moon
was high up in the heavens. He called her his "sunshine"--his "light"
--his "life," and pushing the silken curls from off her childish brow,
kissed her again and again, telling her she should be his wife when
the twentieth day of November came. That was his twenty-ninth
birthday, and looking into her girlish face, he asked her if he were
not too old. He knew she would tell him _no_, and she did, lovingly
caressing his grayish hair.

"He had grown young since he sat there," she said, and so, indeed, he
had, and the rejuvenating process continued day after day, until the
villagers laughingly said that his approaching marriage had put him
back ten years. It was known to all the town's folks now, and unlike
most other matches, was pronounced a suitable one. Even Mrs. Van
Vechten, who had found Ben at Lovejoy's Hotel, and still remained with
him in New York, wrote to her brother a kind of congratulatory letter,
mingled with sickly sentimental regrets for the "heart-broken,
deserted and now departed Marie." It was doubtful whether she came up
to the wedding or not, she said, as Ben had positively refused to
come, or to leave the city either, and kept her constantly on the
watch lest he should elope with a second-rate actress at Laura Keene's