“I must, for I am stronger now; I draw strength from your very presence—you, who have been my life's good angel. Let me tell you so while I can.”
“While you can!”
“Yes; for I sometimes think that, though I am thus far better, I shall never be quite myself again; but slowly, perhaps without suffering, pass away from this world.”
“Oh, no!—oh, no!” And Olive clasped his hand tighter, looking up with a terrified air. “You cannot—shall not die! I—I could not bear it” And then her face was dyed with a crimson blush—soon washed away by a torrent of tears.
Harold turned feebly round, and laid his right hand on her head. “Little Olive! To think that you should weep thus, and I should be so calm!” He waited awhile, until her emotion had ceased. Then he said, “Lift up your face; let me look at you. Nay, tremble not, for I am going to speak very solemnly;—of things that I might never have uttered, save for such an hour as this. You will listen, my own dear friend, my sister, as you said you would be?”
“Yes—yes, always!”
“Ah! Olive, you thought not that you were more to me than any friend—any sister—that I loved you—not calmly, brotherly—but with all the strength and passion of my heart, as a man loves the woman he would choose out of all the world to be his wife.”
These words trembled on lips white as though they had been the lips of death. Olive heard; but she only pressed his hand without speaking.
Harold went on. “I tell you this, because now, when I feel so changed that all earthly things grow dim, I am not too proud to say I love you. Once I was. You stole into my heart before I was aware. Oh! how I wrestled against this love—I, who had been once deceived, so that I believed in no woman's truth. At last, I resolved to trust in yours, but I would try to be quite sure of it first You remember how I talked to you, and how you answered, in the Hermitage of Braid? Then I knew you loved, but I thought you loved not me.”
“How could you think so? Oh! Harold—Harold!”