He paused, the deep passion quivering through his voice.—“Do you love me, Agatha?”
She smiled—some insane, wicked influence must have been upon her—but she smiled, hung her head in childish fashion, and whispered, “I don't quite know.”
“Well—well!” He sighed, and after a brief silence bade her good-bye, kissed her once, and went towards the door.
“Ah—don't go yet. I was very foolish. I never, never can be half so wise as you. Forgive me.”
“Forgive you, my child? Ay, anything.” And he received her as she ran into his arms, kissing her again tenderly, with a sad earnestness that almost increased his love.
“Now I must go, my darling wife. Take care of yourself, and good-bye.”
So they parted. Agatha went in dry-eyed; then locked herself in the library, and cried violently and long.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
“They are sure to be home to-morrow; nothing can prevent their being home to-morrow,” said Agatha, as she read over neither for the first time, nor the second, nor the third, her husband's letter, received from Havre.