“I will go to them myself; rest of good cheer, Cora, you shall not always be so miserable.”
She gave me a wild glance.
“Be tranquil, and trust me, Cora,” I said, full of my project for her happiness; “it is for you this good fortune has come.”
“There is no good fortune for me on earth,” cried the poor girl, clasping her hands, “don’t, Zana, don’t smile so; it will set me to hoping impossible things.”
“Nothing is impossible,” I said, smothering the selfish regrets that would, spite of my efforts, rise against the sacrifice I meditated. “To the strong heart there can be no impossibility—here there shall be none.”
Cora came close to me, smiling so mournfully and shaking her head, as I can fancy Ophelia to have done, with a world of sorrow and one little glow of hope in her poor face.
“Perhaps he thought that I was within hearing, and so did all that to tease me.”
As this soft whisper dropped from her lips, the determination of self-sacrifice grew strong within me. Had we stood at the altar, I think, at the moment, I should have given Irving up to her; she was so trustful and helpless. I seized upon the idea; better far was it that she should fancy anything rather than believe in his faithlessness after all that I intended for her.
“It was all unfeeling pleasantry, I dare say; careless flirtations, that meant nothing.”
“Do you really think so?” she inquired, stealing closer and closer to my side.