“And I will not believe that Harry is—dead.”
“I pray that he may be alive, Louie, to come some time in the future to ask forgiveness of my father. For I did love him, Louie; at first as a sister might the brother with whom she had played from childhood, and of late in sorrow and anguish, as the woman whom he had always said he loved. I fought with it, oh, so hard, but the love was there, and even when I was most hard and cold—”
“And he believed you cared for Mr Leslie.”
The words slipped from Louise Vine’s lips like an escaped thought, and the moment they were spoken, she shrank away with her pale cheeks crimsoning, and she gazed guiltily at her companion.
“It was a foolish fancy on his part,” said Madelaine gravely. “I cannot blame myself for anything I ever said or did to your brother. If I had been wrong, my lapse would have come upon me now like the lash of a whip; but in the long hours of my watches by my poor father’s bed, I have gone over it again and again, and I cannot feel that I have been wrong.”
Louise drew her more closely to her breast.
“Maddy,” she whispered, “years will have to pass, and we must separate. The pleasant old days must end, but some day, when all these horrors have been softened by time, we may call each other sister again, and in the long dark interval you will not forget.”
“Forget!” said Madelaine, with a smile full of sadness. “You know that we shall always be unchanged.”
“Going—so soon?” exclaimed Louise, for her friend had risen.
“He is lying yonder,” said Madelaine. “I must go back. I could not stay away long from you, though, without a word.”