"Dismiss these gloomy thoughts,"—he kissed her forehead—"there are many happy hours before us in this world, Joanna. Think not of death—"
"O, do you know, Beverly," she raised her face,—it was radiant with loveliness—"that I love to think of death. Death, you know, is such a test of sincerity. Before it falsehood falls dumb and hypocrisy drops its mask—"
"Nay, nay you must dismiss these gloomy thoughts. You know I love you—you know—"
He did not complete the sentence, but they passed into the darkness again, his arms about her waist, her head upon his shoulder.
And there, in the gloom, he pressed her to his breast, and as she clung to his neck, whispered certain words, which died in murmurs on her ear.
"No, no, Beverly," she answered, in a voice, broken by emotion, "it cannot be. Consider—"
"Cannot be? And am I not all to you?" he said, impassionately,—"Yes, Joanna, it must be—"
There was a pause, only broken by low murmurs, and passionate kisses.
"Come then," she said, at last, "come, husband—"
Without another word, she took him by the hand, and led him from the room out into the darkened hall. Her hand trembled very much, as she led him through the darkness up the broad stairway. Then a door was opened and together they entered the bed-chamber.