“I shall be leaving in less than an hour, May,” he said. “Will you give me something to take away with me?”
“What shall I give you?” asked May, in a low tone.
“Give me hope,” answered Webster; “the hope that some day I may win what to me is the dearest gift of life.”
May did not speak. Her head dropped, and she slightly turned it aside, but Webster could, still see the delicate profile.
“You know how long I have wished this,” went on Webster, earnestly; “almost from the first time I saw you I loved you—we were parted—”
“Hush, hush,” said May, in a low, trembling voice, “it is too soon to speak of such a thing—even to think of it—”
“But I can not help thinking of it.”
“I—I—can never repay you,” continued May in faltering accents. “Do not think I forget because I do not speak of the past—but for you—”
“You can repay me a hundred-fold, if there were anything to repay, which there is not, by giving me, before I leave you, the hope, even the faintest hope, that you will not quite forget me in my absence.”