“Dead!” she repeated; and in an instant it flashed across her mind all that this might mean to her.
“Yes,” went on Webster, trying to speak calmly, “she died the day before yesterday. It was an accident; she was burned to death.”
“How dreadful!—and does—he know?”
“Yes,” again answered Webster. “I saw him yesterday—it was but right that he should know—he is coming to you to-day.”
May gave a little cry; a little start, as if she were half afraid.
“If it is for your happiness,” continued Webster with faltering lips, “otherwise, of course—”
For a moment or two May did not speak. She stood as if thinking, as if in doubt. Then suddenly she held out her hand to Webster.
“It is but right,” she said, speaking with an effort. “And you—how am I to thank you for all you have done for me?”
Webster’s lips quivered. He tried to say some commonplace words. He stooped down and kissed her trembling hand.
“Your happiness is—everything to me,” he faltered. “I have thought of that alone.”