"It has passed! I knew that it would pass!" Christina seemed to gasp and smile at once. "You know, now, that it was not right;—that it was not you;—that it was an illness;—something that would pass?—You see it too, Milly?—And you will be happy with me again?"
"Yes, yes, dearest Christina."
Still smiling, Christina closed her eyes and Milly laid her back upon her pillows. Her fingers closed tightly on Milly's hand. "It has passed," she said. "It could not have been right. You were everything to me. And he could not have seen the pictures, the jewels, Milly; or heard the music."
"No, dear, no." Milly covered her own eyes. Ah!—those cravings to which Christina had responded;—now so dead.
"I shall get better," said Christina. "I feel it now; I know it. I shall get better and be always with you. My darling. My Milly. My little Milly." Her voice had sunken to a shrouded whisper.
Held by those cold, clutching fingers, Milly sat sobbing. Christina would not get better; and, with horror at herself, she knew that only at the gates of death could she love Christina and be with her. And, glancing round at the head on the pillow—ah!—poor head!—Christina's wonderful head!—more wonderful than ever now, so eager, so doomed, so white, with all its flood of black, black hair—glancing at its ebony and marble, she saw that she need have no fear of life. Christina would not get better.
She spoke again, brokenly. "If you had loved him, you would have hated me. Now you will never hate me."
"I love you."
"You will not send for him? You will not see him alone? You will stay with me?"
"I will stay with you."