“No,” she said, sweetly, and her trembling voice was so piteous that the tears rose to the strong man’s eyes. “It was I who should have known better, Richard—I, who have only a few short months to stay on earth.”
“Netta!” he cried, and his voice was wild and strange.
“Yes, it is true,” she said, simply—“it is quite true; but you came like sunshine to my poor dark life, and I could not help it—I thought you loved me.”
“And I do, my child, dearly, as I would a sister!” he exclaimed, passionately, as he raised her up, and kissed her forehead. “Netta, I would have given my right hand sooner than have caused you pain.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” she said, softly, extricating herself from his arms; “I should have known better. Take me home—take me home!”
She caught at his arm after trying to walk alone, and looked pitifully in his face.
“You see,” she whispered, “it was a dream—a dream; but so bright, and now—”
She reeled, and would have fallen but for the strong arm flung round her; and Richard held her for a few moments till she recovered.
“Richard,” she whispered, sadly, “forgive me if I was unmaidenly and bold; but it seemed so short a time that I should be here, that I could not act as others do. But take me home—take me home.”
She seemed half fainting, and raised he handkerchief to her lips, to take it down stained with blood. Then, shuddering slightly, she turned her face to his, smile faintly, and laid one little thin hand upon his breast, before hanging almost inanimate upon his arm.