"I am doubtful of your willingness to do one thing," he said gravely.
"I tell you there is nothing," she said fervently. "He is all that I have now."
"Nothing? Absolutely nothing, Alma? Would you marry again,—someone who would gladly lay his fortune at your feet, and care for you and the child of his departed friend?"
Alma looked at him intently, and his meaning suddenly dawned upon her.
"Dear George," she said, and her voice trembled: "I believe that you would sacrifice anything for Will's sake. What a friend you have been!" she exclaimed gratefully.
"But you do not answer my question. Would you allow such a friend to have the only satisfaction in his life?"
She looked at him frankly, unabashed.
"No, George, I would not allow such a man as you to give his life for poor, broken-hearted me. Some other woman will surely give heart for heart, and awaken all the glorious love of your perfect manhood," she replied earnestly.
"Alma, it may surprise you to know that my heart is as broken a reed as yours. I have nothing to offer you, except what you can give in return—a lasting friendship. You have loved and lost, so have I. In the losing, you have learned to love the lost one more deeply than before. So have I. It is friendship for friendship, dear girl, and marriage vows for the world's good opinion and our dear Harold's future."
"You have loved and lost, George? You? Irrevocably lost,—are you sure?"