"I am not. You must not say so," says Molly, hastily, the touch of his lips weakening her.
Two large tears that have been slowly gathering roll down her cheeks.
"Oh, Teddy!" cries she, suddenly, covering her face with her hands, "at times, when I see certain flowers or hear some music connected with the olden days, my heart dies within me,—I lose all hope; and then I miss you sorely,—sorely."
Her head is on his breast by this time; his strong young arms are round her, holding her as though they would forever shield her from the pains and griefs of this world.
"I have felt just like you," he says, simply. "But after all, whatever comes, we have each other. There should be comfort in that. Had death robbed us—you of me or me of you—then we might indeed mourn. But as it is there is always hope. Can you not try to find consolation in the thought that, no matter where I may be, however far away, I am your lover forever?"
"I know it," says Molly, inexpressibly comforted.
Their trust is of the sweetest and fullest. No cruel coldness has crept in to defile their perfect love. Living as they are on a mere shadow, a faint streak of hope, that may never break into a fuller gleam, they still are almost happy. He loves her. Her heart is all his own. These are their crumbs of comfort,—sweet fragments that never fail them.
Now he leads her away from the luckless subject of their engagement altogether, and presently she is laughing over some nonsensical tale he is telling her connected with the old life. She is asking him questions, and he is telling her all he knows.
Philip has been abroad—no one knows where—for months; but suddenly, and just as mysteriously as he departed, he turned up a few days ago at Herst, where the old man is slowly fading. The winter has been a severe one, and they think his days are numbered.
The Darleys have at last come to an open rupture, and a friendly separation is being arranged.