He remained silent, and she repeated her request—almost impatiently.
“Tell me her name.”
He looked at her wonderingly for a few moments, before he answered, softly—
“Valentina.”
“Valentina,” said Netta, smiling. “Yes, a pretty name—Valentina. I shall love it as I love her.”
“You love her?”
“Yes, though I have never seen her. Did you not tell me that she loved you? You think me strange,” she continued, smiling in his face, “but I am not. Why, if you could have loved me, I could not have stayed, and you would have been unhappy. It is for the best, and I shall know that you are content.”
“Netta,” said Richard, hoarsely, “you must not talk like this.”
“Why not?” she said, wonderingly. “All the trouble seems past to me. Now I know you feel for me—I believe you like me. Everybody seems kind to me now, and that foolish little dream has quite passed away. Come, tell me about her. I should like to know her. Would she come to see me—if she knew that I was dying?”
“Yes, I feel sure she would, if she knew all,” said Richard, sadly. “She is everything that is gentle and good, and would have loved you dearly, Netta. You may meet yet.”