She suddenly broke down and burst into passionate sobs. In vain Webster entreated her to try and compose herself. It seemed as though the flood-gate of her emotion was let loose, and the long strain of silence broken.
“I am dead!” she kept on repeating; “dead to every one; no one knows I live but you.”
“And yet you pain me so deeply,” said Webster, in a low tone.
“Forgive me,” sobbed May, “but I thought I would ask.”
“Hush, hush! try not to think of all this. A new life is opening to you; try to go into it with a brave heart. Believe me, there is nothing like work; it deadens pain.”
There was an irrepressible ring of sadness in his voice as he said the last words, which told of his own hard struggle, the struggle of which May knew nothing. But something in his voice made her dry her tears and look at him. He was very pale, and his face had grown thinner and more marked, she noticed, and her heart reproached her for adding to his troubles.
“Forgive me for being so selfish,” she said, gently; “I—will not give way any more. But have you been ill? You do not look very well.”
“I have been too hard-worked, I suppose,” answered Webster, trying to smile. “I shall go down to Hastings for a day’s holiday while you are there, and that will freshen me up. And now, is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Nothing, nothing indeed! You have only been too good.”
“That is all right then, and now good-by.”