"Alice darling!" I whispered. My voice was tremulous as a blade of grass in the summer air.
"Dear Basil!" she said in reply.
No heavenly happiness can be greater than that which entered my grateful heart at that moment. All sense of sight and touch and hearing--all heart and soul and mind--were merged in the exquisite belief that inwrapped me then--in the faith that constituted itself a part of me, inseparable, indissoluble, that is mine through all time--that she and I were one for ever and ever!
She sat with me until my landlady warned her that it was time to go. When she was gone, I learned that not a day had passed since my sickness that she had not come to see me.
"Alone?" I asked.
"Yes, alone," my landlady said, adding that she had not spoken to any one of the young lady's visits, as they might have been misconstrued.
The significant tone in which she said this caused me to reflect that Alice's visits, if discovered, would expose her to the world's censure, and I begged my landlady to preserve silence upon the subject.
I will not linger upon this part of my story. Alice's visits were discovered; and one day, when I was nearly well, and when I was sitting by the window waiting for her beloved presence, I received a visit from her aunt.
I saw the unpleasant news in her face directly she entered the room. She commenced by saying she was glad to see I was nearly well, and that she trusted I would not take advantage of a young girl's indiscretion.
"It was by the merest accident I discovered that my niece has been in the habit of coming to see you every day," said the old lady; "and she has been very rash and indiscreet; you must see that, I'm sure."