Barbara Golding’s eyes were dim with tears. The soldier gently said, “I received—” and then paused. She raised her eyes to his. “I received a letter from you five-and-twenty years ago.”
“Yes, five-and-twenty years ago.”
“I hope you cannot guess what pain it gave me.”
“Yes,” she answered faintly, “I can conceive it, from the pain it gave to me.”
There was a pause, and then he stepped forward and, holding out his hand, said: “Will you permit me?” He kissed her fingers courteously, and she blushed. “I have waited,” he added, “for God to bring this to pass.” She shook her head sadly, and her eyes sought his beseechingly, as though he should spare her; but perhaps he could not see that.
“You spoke of a great obstacle then; has it been removed?”
“It is still between us,” she murmured.
“Is it likely ever to vanish?”
“I—I do not know.”
“You can not tell me what it is?”