“But I am thinner, Lionel. See my poor hands, how they are wasted. These are not the plump fingers you used to hold for hours in your own,—all that dreary time you were so ill;” and as she spoke, she laid her hand, as if unconsciously, over his.
“You were so good to me,” muttered he,—“so good and so kind.”
“And you have wellnigh forgotten it all,” said she, sighing heavily.
“Forgotten it! far from it. I never think of you but with gratitude.”
She drew her hand hastily away, and averted her head at the same time with a quick movement.
“Were it not for your tender care and watchfulness, I know well I could never have recovered from that severe illness. I cannot forget, I do not want to forget, the thousand little ways in which you assuaged my suffering, nor the still more touching kindness with which you bore my impatience. I often live it all over again, believe me, Mrs. Sewell.”
“You used to call me Lucy,” said she, in a faint whisper.
“Did I—did I dare?”
“Yes, you dared. You dared even more than that, Lionel. You dared to speak to me, to write to me, as only he can write or speak who offers a woman his whole heart. I know the manly code on these matters is that when a married woman listens even once to such addresses, she admits the plea on which her love is sought; but I believed—yes, Lionel, I believed—that yours was a different nature. I knew—my heart told me—that you pitied me.”
“That I did,” said he, with a quivering lip.