“Ah, don’t you understand?” she said. “I love you—I have always loved you—I shall love you till I die.”
And then he yielded. He turned with a low, passionate sound that was almost of pain, and held her to him, bowing his head against her, beaten at last.
“You are sure?” he said, and she felt the sob he stifled. “Frances, you are sure? Before God—this is for your own sake—not for mine?”
She held him to her, so that the throbbing of her heart was against his own. “But you and I are one,” she said. “God made us so.”
The church-clock struck the hour again, and they looked at one another with the dismay of lovers for whom time flies on wings. Down the hill at the farm they heard Roger’s voice uplifted in cheery admonition. The cows were being driven back to pasture for the night, and Maggie’s song came lilting through the gloaming.
“Shall we go back to Tetherstones?” Arthur said.
And Frances nodded silently.
They left the place of sacrifice hand in hand.
THE END