As she uttered his name, tremulously as a woman breathes for the first time the beloved name in the beloved ear, Harold started. But still he answered calmly,
“Whether that thought was true or not, would not change what I am about to say now. All my pride is gone—I only desire that you should know how deeply I loved you: and that, living or dying, I shall love you evermore.”
Olive tried to answer—tried to tell him the story of her one great love—so hopeless, yet so faithful—so passionate, yet so dumb. But she could utter nothing save the murmur—“Harold! Harold!” And therein he learnt all.
Looking upon her, there came into his face an expression of unutterable joy. He made an effort to raise himself, but in vain. “Come,” he murmured, “come near me, Olive—my little Olive that loves me!—is it not so?”
“Ever—from the first, you only—none but you!”
“Kiss me, then, my own faithful one,” he said faintly.
Olive leaned over him, and kissed him on the eyes and mouth. He tried to fold his arms round her, but failed.
“I have no strength at all,” he said, sorrowfully. “I cannot take her to my heart—my darling—my wife! So worn-out am I—so weak.”
“But I am strong,” Olive answered. She put her arm under his head, and made him lean on her shoulder. He looked up smiling.
“Oh, this is sweet, very sweet! I could sleep—I could almost die—thus”——