"Would you say that you love the dead no more because you see them not?" he questioned gently. "The sight—the touch—what is it? Only the earthly medium of Love; Love Itself is a higher thing, capable of the last sacrifice, greater than evil, stronger than death. Oh, believe me, Christine, Death is a very small thing compared with Love. If our love were of the spirit only, Death would be less than nothing; for it is only the body that can ever die."
"But why can't we be happy before we die?" whispered Chris. "Other people are."
He shook his head. "I doubt it, chérie. With death in the world there can be no perfection. All passes—all passes—except only the Love that is our Life."
He paused a moment, seeming to hesitate upon the verge of telling her something more; but in that instant she raised her head and he refrained.
"Ah, Christine," he said sadly, "I never thought that I should make you weep like this."
"Oh, it's not your fault, Bertie." She smiled at him, with quivering lips. "It's just life. But—dearest—I want you to know all the same—that I'm glad—I'm glad I love you so. And—whether it's right or wrong, I can't help it—I shall always love you—best of all."
His eyes shone at the words. A passionate answer sprang to his lips, but he stopped it unuttered. "We are not responsible for that which we cannot help," he said instead. "Only—my darling"—for the first time the English word of endearment passed his lips, spoken almost under his breath—"never permit the thought of me to come between you and your husband. Be faithful, Christine—be faithful!"
She made no answer of any sort; but her eyes were hopeless.
He waited a while, still holding her hands while tenderly he watched her.
At last, "I must go, chérie," he whispered.
Her face quivered. Suddenly and impetuously as of old she spoke. "Bertie, once—long ago—you meant to marry me, didn't you?"