“But you would be quite alone!”
“I am quite alone as it is.”
“And would your father consent?”
“I think he would. I am a burthen to them now. They cannot feel my grief, nor comfort it, and they don’t like the sight of it, though I am sure I trouble them with it as little as possible.”
“Dear Cecil!” and the ready tears welled up in Rosamond’s gray eyes.
“I don’t want to talk of it,” said Cecil. “If I felt worthy to grieve it would be less dreadful; but it all seems like hypocrisy. Rosamond, if you were to lose Julius to-morrow, you would not be as unhappy as I am.”
“Don’t, don’t!” cried Rosamond, making a gesture of horror. “But does not coming here make it worse?”
“No, real stabs are better than dull aching; and then you—you, Rosamond, did know how it really was, and that I would—I would—”
Cecil wept now as Rosamond had longed to see her weep when she had left Compton, and Rosamond spoke from her tender heart of comfort; but the outburst did not last long, and Cecil said, recovering herself—
“After all, my most peaceful times of late have been in walking about in those woods at Sirenwood; I should like to live there. You know he always wished it to be the purchase, because it joins Compton, and I should like to get it all into perfect order and beauty, and leave it all to little Raymond.”