At last she stirred in his arms and lifted her face to his.
“Randolph, you must never leave me again,” she said. “I cannot bear it—I cannot.”
“I will not, my dear wife,” he answered. “Never again shall aught but death part thee and me.”
She clung to him, half shuddering.
“Ah! do not talk of death, Randolph. I cannot bear it—I cannot listen.”
He pressed a kiss upon her trembling lips.
“Does my wife love me now?” he asked, very gravely and tenderly. “Let me hear it from your own sweet lips, my Monica.”
“Ah, Randolph, I love, I love you;” she lifted her eyes to his as she spoke. There was something almost solemn in their deep, earnest gaze. “Randolph, I do not think any one but your wife could know such a love as mine.”
“Not your husband?” he asked, returning her look with one equally full of meaning. “Monica, you may love as well, but I think you cannot love more than I do.”
She laid her head down again. It was unspeakably sweet to hear him say so, to feel his arms about her, to know that they were united at last, and that nothing could part them now.