"No, not now. O my love, will you not come to me?"
Then she rushed to me. "But, but you are not—that is, you are not——"
She did not finish the sentence, for she lay sobbing on my shoulder again, just as a babe might sob on its mother's breast.
"And do you care?" I said again. "Oh, will you not speak to me once more? Will you not tell me what—what I long to hear?"
"You are safe—that is, you are sure you are not hurt—that is very badly?"
"No, no; I mind nothing. I am quite well. I shall be happier than words can tell if you—you will only tell me you love me."
"I—I am afraid I told you too soon," and this she said with a laugh that had a sob in it, but the sob contained no sorrow, and still I was not satisfied.
"But my love, tell me," I cried, "tell me really, for I shall never be content until I hear the words from your own lips."
"Oh, I cannot, I am so ashamed," she sobbed. "I did not mean you should know until you—had first told me—that is,—O Roger, I am so happy!"