“Oh! it seems so strange—all so strange, John.”
She put her hand half-timidly into his as she spoke, and as she said it was all so strange. A long lifetime appeared to lie between her and the early days of her fond love and happiness. She looked up in John’s face; it seemed changed, too, but he was very kind and gentle to her.
“You must change this becoming dress,” he said, smiling, and laying his hand on her black gown. “The cap suits you charmingly, but it won’t do for you now, you know. You will want some money, May, so I have brought it for you.”
“Oh, how can you talk of such things—just when we have met again.”
“My child, it was your own fault that we ever parted. However, we had best agree to drop this subject forever; no one knows of it but one person, and for my sake I think she will keep the secret.”
“And—my father?”
“Oh, I was forced to tell him a garbled sort of story, but, of course, we may depend on his secrecy. He will be present at your second wedding, May, and will give you away.”
May gave a tremulous little sigh. She was remembering her first wedding, and her infinite love and trust.
“Your father will be here presently, I expect,” went on John Temple, “and I think you had better stay with him until we are married. We can be married the day after to-morrow by special license, but not to-morrow.”
Not to-morrow! for John Temple knew that on the morrow Kathleen Weir was to be laid in her untimely grave. He did not mean to follow her there; to him for long years she had been a burden and encumbrance. But all the same he did not choose to marry on her burial day.