'Indeed, it is the last evening you have to spend here,' said Edmund, half wrathful, half appeased. 'You are doing all you can to show me how little that affects you.'
'You do me injustice. The separation is more painful to me than you can imagine.'
Oswald's voice shook so audibly that Edmund looked at him in surprise, and all his anger vanished.
'Why, what ails you, Oswald? You are as pale as death, and have seemed so strange all the evening. But I can guess: you have been searching among these letters and papers, which, no doubt, belonged to your parents, and they have awakened many sad memories.'
'Yes, much that is very sad,' said Oswald, drawing a deep breath; 'but it is over now. You are right, they were old memories which put me out of tune. I will drive the troubling thoughts from me, and altogether make an end of them now.'
'Then I really will go,' declared Edmund. 'I forgot that you might still have much to arrange and set in order. We shall meet to-morrow morning. Good-night, Oswald.'
He held out his hand to his cousin, but the latter, assuredly for the first time in his life, took him in his arms, and held him for a moment in a tight embrace.
'Goodnight, Edmund. I have often seemed harsh and cold in return for your warm and hearty friendship, yet you have been very dear to me--how dear I hardly knew myself until this hour.'
'The hour of parting,' said Edmund, half reproachfully, as he cordially returned the embrace. 'But for that, the confession would never have passed your lips. No matter, I have always felt, known how you cared for me in your heart of hearts.'
'Not fully, perhaps. I did not know it myself until to-day. But go now. With that wound of yours, you really should not stay up longer. Go and rest.'