May lay silent for a moment or two; then she said, slowly:
“Yes, John, that will be best; you had best go now.”
“But are you well enough for me to leave you? I do not like leaving you.”
Again May sighed wearily, and then raised herself up and put her arms around his neck.
“You had better go,” she said; “and—and John, will you remember that—that I will always love you!”
“I am sure of it; you give me fresh life, May—well, then, good-by, though I shall soon be back.”
Their lips met in one long, tender, clinging kiss, and then John Temple reluctantly left her. But on the whole his mind was somewhat relieved. She had borne it better than he expected; at all events she had said they could not live apart.
But scarcely had the door of the room closed behind him when a great change came over May’s face. There came over it despair—blank, bitter despair. She sat up and thought. She put her hand to her brow.
“I can not bear it,” she said, half-aloud; “it is too hard to bear.”
She remembered all her sweet love-dream in these brief moments; remembered John Temple standing with her in the moonlit garden of Woodside; remembered his looks, the touch of his dear hand! And it had been all folly! He, the husband of another woman, must have known she could never be his wife. He had been amusing himself; she had been his plaything; what else could she be now?