One pang, exults, while mine is breaking.
Pour me the poison; fear not thou!
Thou canst not murder more than now;
I’ve lived to curse my natal day,
And love, that thus can lingering slay!
She stopped with a sob, and flung her arms about Sir Harold’s neck, a passion of tears raining from her eyes.
“Poor little Theresa,” he said, tenderly; “but how foolish you are to give way to such fears. Am I not near you—shall I not be ever near to protect you?”
With a long, fluttering sigh, she nestled her head upon his shoulder and was content.
CHAPTER XVIII.
SIR HAROLD’S WALK TO FARNWELL.