And somehow at this moment she understood something of the unspoken feelings of his heart. One of those glimpses into another’s soul which came unsought passed through hers. She trembled; she drew away her hand.
“May God bless you,” murmured Webster, and the next moment he was gone. And he left May strangely disturbed. His constant kindness, his generosity in word and deed, and now his unselfish love, moved her deeply. But she had not much time for thought. She had scarcely indeed returned to her duties in the wards when another message was brought to her that a second visitor was waiting for her in the house surgeon’s room, and the moment she heard this she knew who it would be.
It was in truth John Temple; and as she entered the room pale, nervous, beautiful, he advanced toward her and took her in his arms.
“How could you give me all that bitter pain, May?” were his first words, and then he bent down and kissed her lips.
“You know that I am free now,” he said, presently. “I have seen your father, and have arranged with him that we shall be married again immediately. But May, I will never believe that you really loved me now.”
She looked at him with eyes full of reproach.
“I—I meant to die,” she faltered. “But for Mr. Webster—”
“Do not, please, speak of it; you are looking very well; as pretty as ever, I think, May; and you must forget all this like a bad dream. Do you know my poor uncle is dead?”
“I never heard of it; I have lived here, and—never spoken of the past.”
“He is dead, poor man; he died quite suddenly, and I was recalled to England in consequence. I am living at Woodlea now, and you must go there, May.”