And now three years are past. M. Emanuel's return is fixed. He is to be
with me ere the mists of November come. My school flourishes; my house
is ready.
But the skies hang full and dark--a wrack sails from the west. Peace,
peace, Banshee--"keening" at every window. The storm did not cease till
the Atlantic was strewn with wrecks. Peace, be still! Oh, a thousand
weepers, praying in agony on waiting shores, listened for that voice;
but when the sun returned, his light was night to some!
Here pause. Enough is said. Trouble no kind heart. Leave sunny
imaginations hope. Let them picture union and a happy life.
* * * * *