"I am glad to have met her again—glad to have been able to do her some small good in return for the infinite good she once did me. I shall bid her farewell now—at once and altogether."
A quick, involuntary turn of the hidden face asked him "Why?"
"Because," John answered, "the world says we are not equals, and it would neither be for Miss March's honour nor mine did I try to force upon it the truth—which I may prove openly one day—that we ARE equals."
Miss March looked up at him—it were hard to say with what expression, of pleasure, or pride, or simple astonishment; perhaps a mingling of all—then her eyelids fell. She silently offered her hand, first to me and then to John. Whether she meant it as friendliness, or as a mere ceremony of adieu, I cannot tell. John took it as the latter, and rose.
His hand was on the door—but he could not go.
"Miss March," he said, "perhaps I may never see you again—at least, never as now. Let me look once more at that wrist which was hurt."
Her left arm was hanging over the sofa—the scar being visible enough. John took the hand, and held it firmly.
"Poor little hand—blessed little hand! May God bless it evermore."
Suddenly he pressed his lips to the place where the wound had been—a kiss long and close, such as only a lover's kiss could be. Surely she must have felt it—known it.
A moment afterward, he was gone.