“Oh, Tyrrel, if it was—if it was! What a beautiful dream! But it is only a dream. If it could be true, would he forgive Dora? Would he come back to her?”
“No!” Tyrrel’s voice was positive and even stern. “No, he could never come back to her. She might go to him. She left him without any reason. I do not think he would care to see her again.”
“I would say no more, Tyrrel. I do not think as you do. It is a dream, a fancy, just an imagination. But if it were true, Basil would wish no pilgrimage of abasement. He would say to her, ‘Dear one, HUSH! Love is here, travel-stained, sore and weary, but so happy to welcome you!’ And he would open all his great, sweet heart to her. May I tell Dora some day what you have thought and said? It will be something good for her to dream about.”
“Do you think she cares? Did she ever love him?”
“He was her first love. She loved him once with all her heart. If it would be right—safe, I mean, to tell Dora——”
“On this subject there is so much NOT to say. I would never speak of it.”
“It may be a truth”
“Then it is among those truths that should be held back, and it is likely only a trick of my imagination, a supposition, a fancy.”
“A miracle! And of two miracles I prefer the least, and that is that Basil is dead. Your young preacher is a dream; and, oh, Tyrrel, I am so tired! It has been such a long, long, happy day! I want to sleep. My eyes are shutting as I talk to you. Such a long, long, happy day!”
“And so many long, happy days to come, dearest.”