"My dear, my dear!" he whispered, trying to soothe her. They stood there locked in each other's arms while the minutes went by. At last, "Help me to find the candle," she said, faintly, and as they both went towards the fireless grate, groping and stooping to feel about the floor, "Perhaps we should rather try to get used to the dark," she said; and he, with breaking heart, caught at her, crying hoarsely:
"Val! Val! I can't bear it!"
"I'll help you, dear."
"I can't let you die."
"Isn't it strange?—everybody's said that who has loved some one. And where are they all?"
"But you are so young." They had reached the sofa in the dark, and sat there locked together.
"Yes, thank Heaven, we're young." She pressed her face against his wet cheek. "Ah! don't be so terribly unhappy, dear. To die!—why, that's the most wonderful of all."
FOOTNOTE:
[A] By permission, from A Shropshire Lad, by A. E. Housman.