“Indeed, I fear it must,” put in Miss Morgan.
“And I,” said Edgar. “I—am a soldier. I must try not to repine. But I cannot bear to think that we shall never meet again. I will pray that it may be otherwise, and that there may be happy days yet in store for you, Beebee—may I even say for us.”
He paused for a moment.
Beebee was silent, and weeping quietly as women-folks do, Warlock.
I had jumped up on the couch where poor Edgar lay, and was rubbing my head against his shoulder.
“This cat, Beebee,” continued Edgar, “is she very dear to you?”
“She is a friend. Poor Shireen! Sometimes when I am solitary and alone her affection and kindness is a great solace to me. But she is very young.”
She had drawn closer to the couch, and was patting my head.
“I think she loves me,” she added.
“I think,” said Edgar, touching her hand lightly, “this puss, Shireen, is a medium. Else how could you have read my thoughts?”