“My father knows nothing of it all! Nothing. You have seen him, and you know how little he is able now to cope with a difficulty. The very sense that his faculties are not what they were overcomes him, even to tears.”
Up to this she had spoken with a calm firmness that had lent a touch of almost sternness to her manner, but at the mention of her poor father's condition, her courage gave way, and she turned away and hid her face, but her convulsed shoulders showed how her emotion was overcoming her. I went towards her, and took her hand in both my own. She left it to me while I kissed it again and again.
“Oh, Sara,” I whispered rather than spoke, “if you knew how devoted I am to you, if you knew how willingly I would give my very life for you, you would not think yourself friendless at this hour. Your trust in me has made me forget how lonely I am, and how humble,—to forget all that separates us, even to telling that I love you. Give me one word—only one—of hope; or if not that, let your dear hand but close on mine, and I am yours forever.”
She never spoke, however, and her cold fingers returned no pressure to mine.
“I love you; I love you!” I muttered, as I covered her hand with kisses.
“There! Do you not hear?” cried she, suddenly. “My father is calling me.”
“Sara, Sara! Where is Sara?” cried the old man, in a weak, reedy voice.
“I am coming, dear father,” said she. “Good-bye, Digby; remember that I trust you!”
