"I love you," he said, at length, with parched lips. He had always thought it would be a moment of too great happiness when he could say these words to Margaret, but it was one of heaviness and confusion of soul. He wished now that he had waited a little longer, until he could get rid of the haunting memory of Sophy.
"Yes," answered Margaret, in a very low, sweet tone, "and I love you, Sidney!"
She spoke with the open simplicity of a child, but her lips quivered, and the tears stood in her eyes. He folded her in his arms, and for a minute or two they were both silent. The heaviness and bewilderment of his soul passed away in the sense of present gladness. All the trouble of his old folly was over; there was no harvest of bitterness to reap. He was as free as if he had never fallen into any unworthy entanglement. And the pure, sweet, true heart of this girl was as much his own as if he had never known any other love. He declared to himself he never had.
"I have never loved any woman but you," he exclaimed aloud, as if he challenged his dead wife to contradict him.
"And I," she said, looking up into his face with a smile, "never thought of loving any man but you."
He stooped down and kissed her. It was impossible to echo her words.
"Let us go and tell my father," she said, after a few minutes had passed by; "he is ill, and we must not leave him too long alone. He is very fond of you, Sidney."
He followed Margaret to the door of her father's room, but she passed on, beckoning to him to go in alone. Colonel Cleveland lay on his invalid couch, looking more worn than he had done the week before.
"Welcome back again, Sidney," he cried out, with a faint smile. "I was afraid I had scared you away by my imprudence. And I cannot get along without you, my friend."
"No, no," he answered; "I stayed away because I could not trust myself with Margaret, after what you said."