"Think—a life like his, that might be made a blessing to all he loves—to all the world—is it to be sacrificed thus? It may be—I do not say it will—but it may be. While in health he could fight against this—this which I must not speak of; but now his health is gone. He cannot rally. Without some change, I see clearly, even I, who love him better than any one can love him—"
She stirred a little here.
"Far better," I repeated; "for while John does NOT love me best, he to me is more than any one else in the world. Yet even I have given up hope, unless—But I have no right to say more."
There was no need. She began to understand. A deep, soft red, sun-rise colour, dawned all over her face and neck, nay, tinged her very arms—her delicate, bare arms. She looked at me once—just once—with a mute but keen inquiry.
"It is the truth, Miss March—ay, ever since last year. You will respect it? You will, you shall respect it?"
She bent her head in acquiescence—that was all. She had not uttered a single syllable. Her silence almost drove me wild.
"What! not one word? not one ordinary message from a friend to a friend?—one who is lying ill, too!"
Still silence.
"Better so!" I cried, made desperate at last. "Better, if it must be, that he should die and go to the God who made him—ay, made him, as you shall yet see, too noble a man to die for any woman's love."
I left her—left her where she sat, and went my way.