Beecher took her hand once more, and, bending down, kissed it fervently. What a strange thrill was that that ran through his heart, and what an odd sense of desolation was it as he relinquished that fair, soft hand, as though it were that by its grasp he held on to life and hope together! “Oh,” muttered he to himself, “why was not she—why was not he himself—twenty things that neither of them were?”
“I wish I could read your thoughts,” said she, smiling gently at him.
“I wish to heaven you could!” cried he, with an honest energy that his nature had not known for many a day.
For the remainder of the way neither spoke, beyond some chance remark upon the country or the people. It was as though the bridge between them was yet too frail to cross, and that they trusted to time to establish that interchange of thought and confidence which each longed for.
“Here we are at the end of our journey!” said he, with a sigh, as they entered Aix.
“And the beginning of our friendship,” said she, with a smile, while she held out her hand to pledge the contract.
So intently was Beecher gazing at her face that he did not notice the action.
“Won't you have it?” asked she, laughing.
“Which,” cried he,—“the hand or the friendship?”
“I meant the friendship,” said she, quietly.