For an hour these were the only words he murmured, at intervals, in many different ways.
"Do you know me, dearest?" she asked: "do you hear me? It is Margaret who is speaking. Your Margaret."
"My Margaret!" he whispered. "My soul! My beloved!"
His voice was like the murmurs of the softest breeze. Margaret, with open lips, received his dying words in her mouth. With what pangs of love and anguish did she receive them!
Mr. Hart, during an interval of silence, motioned to Margaret. Might he speak to Philip? Margaret's hand crept across the bed to the old man's. Lover and friend were joined above Philip's breast.
"Philip, my dear boy," said Mr. Hart, "do you know my voice?"
"Dear old fellow!" came presently from Philip. "Noble old fellow! I saw you. God bless Margaret and you! Dear friend, were you hurt much?"
"Not at all, my dear lad."
"It delights me to hear that. God is very good!"
All their strength was required for composure; they checked their sobs, so that the sound of them might not disturb him; he could not see the tears that ran down their faces.