I took her hand in mine. "Dear Jacqueline," I answered, "it is best to forget these things until the time comes to remember them. It will come, Jacqueline. Let us be happy till then. You have been ill, and you have had great trouble. That is all. I am taking you home. Do you not remember anything about your home, Jacqueline?"
She clapped her hands to her head and gave a little terrified cry.
"I—think—so," she murmured. "But I dare not remember, Paul.
"I have dreamed of things," she went on in agitated, rapid tones, "and then I have seemed to remember everything. But when I wake I have forgotten, and it is because I know that I must forget. Paul, I dream of a dead man, and men who hate and are following us. Was there—ever—a dead man, Paul?" she asked, shuddering.
"No, dear Jacqueline," I answered stoutly. "Those dreams are lies."
She still looked hopelessly at me, and I knew she was not quite convinced.
"Oh, it was not true, Paul?" she asked pleadingly, gathering each word upon each indrawn breath.
I placed one arm around her.
"Jacqueline, there never was any dead man," I said. "It is not true. Some day I will tell you everything—some day——"
I broke off helplessly, for my voice failed me, I was so shaken. I knew that at last I was conquered by the passion that possessed me, long repressed, but not less strong for its repression. I caught her in my arms.