What! Min dead—my darling whom I had hurried home to see once more, the whisper of whose calling I had heard across the expanse of vast Atlantic in eager entreaty; and whose tender, clinging affection I had looked forward to, as the earnest of all my toils and struggles, my longing hopes, my halting doubts, my groans, my tears!
It could not be.
I would not believe it. God could not be so cruel as man; and what man would do such a heartless deed?
It was false. Could I not hear her merry, rippling laughter, as she came forth heart-joyous to greet me; see the dear, soul-lit, grey eyes beaming with happiness and love; feel her perfumed violet breath as she raised her darling little rosebud of a mouth to mine—as I had fancied, and pictured it all, over and over again, a thousand times and more?
Hark! was not that her glad voice speaking now in silvery accents—“O, Frank!” nothing more; but, a world of welcome in the simple syllables?
Dead!
How could she be dead, when I was waiting to hear from her truth-telling, loving lips what she had written to tell me already—that she trusted me again, as she had trusted me in those old, old days that had passed by never to return; and, loved me still in spite of all?
Dead! It was a lie. They wanted to deceive me. They were joking with me!
Min, my darling, dead? It could not be. It was impossible!
Did they take me for a fool?