‘I do know it,’ I replied; ‘and therefore I am going. By this time to-morrow I hope to have made all necessary preparations, and to be ready for a start. Meanwhile you will stay here—I know you will, because I ask you—to comfort and look after Janie until you receive your uncle’s consent to go to Madras. And when it arrives, and you have left Mushin-Bunda, I will return to it.’
‘And we shall never, never meet again!’ she said, in a voice so broken as to be almost inarticulate.
I dared not answer her; had I spoken, I must have poured out all my heart.
‘You have consented?’ were my next words.
‘Yes, since you think it best; only I am sorry to be the means of driving you from home.’
‘If you are—though you have no need to be—will you give me one recompense, Margaret?’
She lifted her eyes inquiringly; speech seemed almost lost to her.
‘Say you forgive me for what I told you yesterday. I have sorely reproached myself since.’
She stretched out her hand, and met mine in a grasp which, though firm, was cold as that of death.
‘Then we part friends?’