He sat down beside her, took her hand, looked into her pale face, and tenderly questioned:
“What has happened to distress you, darling? Is anyone you care for sick or in trouble? Can I help you, then? You know I would aid to my last dollar if it were any one you cared for,” he said, caressing the little fingers he toyed with.
“Oh, Le! Le!” she moaned.
“Odalite!” he whispered, in an access of anxiety, “is any one—dead? Tell me! I have just come, and know nothing. Is any one—dead?”
“Oh, no! No, Le! No one is dead. I—I wish to Heaven some one were!”
“Not any one we love, Le. Oh, Le! I will tell you as soon as I can. Something has happened. I—I brought you out here to tell you. But, oh, Le! Le! dear Le! how shall I tell you?”
“My darling Odalite, what?”
“Don’t speak to me, Le! Don’t speak! Listen! Le, hate me! scorn me! I deserve that you should. Oh, no! no! Don’t! don’t! I should go mad if you did. But—try not to mind me; try not to care for me at all. I am not worth it, Le. Not worth a regret—not worth a thought. I am such a poor thing! Such a very poor thing! And I shall not last long. That is the best of it.” She breathed these last words out in a low, long-drawn sigh, dropping her head upon her bosom and her arms upon her lap.
“Oh, my dear Odalite, what is the meaning of all this? What ails you? What misfortune has happened to you? Have you lost your health? Oh, my own, own darling! is it so? You are so pale and cold and faint! That must be it. You have lost your health. But do you think I would give you up for that? Oh, no, no, no, my precious! That would make me only more your own devoted Le than ever before. I would care for you, and wait on you, and nurse you more tenderly than ever a mother did her baby. For are you not my own—my very own?” he said, putting his arms around her and drawing her close to his heart.