They walked on slowly, side by side. Words were difficult; but a great peace came over them both.
“Do you think,” said Amethyst, presently, “is he worse? It will not be very soon, will it?”
“I don’t know,” said Sylvester. “He is much weaker than he was. I am glad my father is coming next week. Poor Lucy was meant for living! But he does suffer frightfully, night and day. I shall not leave him—I have arranged for that—and I couldn’t possibly go away now.”
“He likes to have you.”
“Yes, the dear boy! He always has clung to me, though, heaven knows, I often manage badly enough for him. But whatever he likes—There’s one thing I must tell you. You know I tried to hold him up when he fell. My strength was going—in another minute he must have pulled me over. And he knew it—and let my hand go!”
Sylvester could hardly speak of that most awful moment, and Amethyst grew paler with sympathy. “Oh—that was splendid of him!” she said.
Then her heart gave a great throb and bound, and she knew which life was the dearest to her. The blood rushed back to her temples, she could see nothing, but she felt that Sylvester held her hand close in his own, and presently she heard his voice whispering—
“You know what makes my life worth living?” She turned, and at once giving him her hands, and putting him away from her, she said—
“Oh, we will do everything for him, we will not think of anything but him—while he wants us.”
She fled away as she spoke; but her words seemed to Sylvester the most beautiful answer that she could have given him, the perfect expression of their according hearts.