“I was a brute to say it. I thought it would make it easier for you—when——” and his voice broke—“sometimes—when—you think of me——”
“Which will be every day—and often. And now I must be going. I was already late enough when Tommy ran away. I was afraid of his meeting poor Ben’s fate. Will you come with me as far as the brow of the hill, where our paths part?”
“Yes—part for ever!” he added to himself.
As they turned, she asked him many questions concerning his life, his associates, and his occupations. He on his side made the best of everything, painting the Yellow Bungalow, the gardens, the planters and missionaries with gorgeous colours.
“And are there no white women near you?” she inquired. “Have you never met one lady to speak to since you left Shirani?”
“Yes, I have one acquaintance, and one who is a friend of yours. She is a Persian, I believe. Your little cornelian ring has been a strong link between us. She is a most mysterious person. No one can tell who she is, or where she came from. All we know is, that she spends her present time in doing good, nursing the sick and dying. She told me that you knew the history of her life—you alone——”
“It is true,” bending her head as she spoke, and fixing her eyes on the ground.
“She shrinks from all observation, but she does not hide from me—for your sake; we talk about you constantly, I may say always.”
“Then give her a message from me, please. Tell her that I often think of her, and ask her if I may write to her, or if she will write to me?”
“You forget that she is a Persian. How can she possibly write to you?”