“Ill?” faltered the farmer. “I forgot you could not know. Luke, my boy! my poor bairn! She cannot last the night.”
“Stop that fly,” panted Luke. “A telegram—to London—to Sir Roland Murray—I know his address—to come at once, at any cost. Paper, man, for God’s sake—quick—pens—ink. Moments mean life.”
“Moments mean death, Luke Ross,” said the Churchwarden, solemnly. “My boy, I have not spared my useless money. It could not save her life. She knows that you have come. She heard the wheels.”
Luke followed the old man to the upper chamber, fragrant with sweet country scents, and then staggered to the bedside, to throw himself upon his knees.
“Sage! My love!” he panted, as he caught her hand. “You must live to bless me—my love, whom I have loved so long. It is not too late—it is not too—”
He paused as he too truly read the truth, and bent down to catch her fleeting breath that strove to shape itself in words.
“I could not die until I saw you once again. No; Luke—friend—brother—it could not have been. Quick,” she cried. “My children—quick!”
The Churchwarden went softly from the room, while poor old Mrs Portlock sank down in a chair by the window, and covered her face with her hands.
“I have been dying these two years, Luke,” whispered Sage, faintly. “Now, tell me that you forgive the past.”
“Forgive? It has been forgiven these many years,” he groaned. “But, Sage, speak to me, my own old love.”