“That is your old error, the error of a lack of faith,” she replied, with one of her bright smiles. “Death will unite us beyond the possibility of parting. I pray God that it may come quickly—to me, not to you. You have your life to lead; mine is finished. I do not mean the life of my body, but the real life, that within.”
“I think that you are right; I grow sure of it. But here there is nothing to be done.”
“Of course,” she answered eagerly; “nothing. Do you suppose that I wished to suggest such a treachery?”
“No, you are too pure and good.”
“Good I am not—who is?—but I believe that I am pure.”
“It is bitter,” groaned Morris.
“Why so? My heart aches, and yet through the pain I rejoice, because I know that it is well with us. Had you not loved me, then it would have been bitter. The rest is little. What does it matter when and how and where it comes about? To-day we part—for ever in the flesh. You will not look upon this mortal face of mine again.”
“Why do you say so?”
“Because I feel that it is true.”
He glanced up hastily, and she answered the question in his eyes.