She laughed with apparent gaiety, yet there was uneasiness in her voice.
"You heard nothing but my foolish confession, Dick. I love you, love you! Do you hear? I love you. I tried to kill it—in vain. But what matter? Love is everything—there is nothing else to live for. And you and I are all the world. Your love is mine. Tell me, is it not so? And I am yours, my beloved, yours for ever."
But he only half heard her; forces were at work in his life which he could not comprehend. A new longing came to him—the longing for a strong, clean manhood.
"Do you believe in angels?" he asked suddenly.
Why the question passed his lips he did not know, but it sprung to his lips without thought or effort on his part. Then he remembered. Beatrice Stanmore had asked him that question weeks before down at Wendover Park.
Angels! His mind became preternaturally awake; his memory flashed back across the chasm of years.
"Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation?"
Yes; he remembered the words. The old clergyman had repeated them years before, when he had seen the face of the woman which no other man could see.
Like lightning his mind swept down the years, and he remembered the wonderful experiences which had had such a marked influence on his life.
"Angels!" laughed the woman. "There are no angels save those on earth, my friend. There is no life other than this, so let us be happy."