It was idle to deny it—and why should I, when it made him happy? Radiantly happy his face was now—the sharp lines softened, the wrinkles smoothed out. He looked ten years younger; ah! I am glad I am only a girl still; in time I shall actually make him young.
Here, the hall-bell sounded—and though visitors are never admitted to this special little parlour, still Max turned restless, and said he must go.
“Why?”
He hesitated—then said hastily:—
“I will tell you the truth; I am happier out of your sight than in it, just at present.”
I made no answer.
“To-night, I mean to start—on that journey I told you of.” Which was to him a very painful one, I perceived.
“Go then, and get it over. You will come back to me soon.”
“God grant it.” He was very much agitated.
The only woman he had ever wished for his wife. This, I was. And I felt like a wife. Talk of Penelope's long courtship—Lisabel's marriage—it was I that was, in heart and soul, the real wife; ay, though Max and I were never more to one another than now; though I lived as Theodora Johnston to the end of my days.