"Forgive me," said Tristrem, "I did not mean to vex you. Nor would I disturb her." He paused a second, dumbly and vaguely afflicted. "You will tell her, will you not?" he added; "tell her this, that I wanted to see her. Mrs. Raritan, my whole life is wrapped up in her." He hesitated again. "You are tired too, I can see. You were up with her last night, were you not?"
Mrs. Raritan bowed her head.
"You must forgive me," he repeated, "I did not understand. Tell me," he continued, "last night I awoke thinking that I heard her calling. Did she call?"
"Call what?"
"I thought—you see I was half, perhaps wholly asleep, but I thought I heard her voice. I was mistaken, was I not?"
"Yes, you must have been."
The negro had brought down the luggage, and stood waiting at the gate.
"You will tell her—Mrs. Raritan—I love her with all my heart and soul."
The lady's lips quivered. "She knows it, and so do I."
"You will ask her to write."