At the last words, she drew his head more closely against her breast, and, bending over him, kissed him with a long lingering kiss.
"Only—me—in spite—of everything?"
"Only—you—sweetheart," she murmured; "only you—always."
"And—that other—who has been your friend—of whom you told me?" His voice was growing fainter.
"He has been—he is—my good and loyal friend," she answered; "he is nothing more to me than that. He could not ever be anything more."
"Perhaps—afterwards—when—I have gone—you and he——"
But she would not let him finish his halting, breathless sentence.
"He and I will never be more than friends," she said, very clearly, very firmly. "I could not love another man. There is not room in my heart for anyone but you."
A silence followed, a silence only broken by the dying man's difficult long-drawn breaths, by the occasional dropping of a coal into the grate, or the creaking of the heavy old furniture. And all the time Margaret stood immovable in her place, her arms about the dying man, his head close pillowed against her. All at once he spoke again, hurriedly, fearfully.
"You—are—sure—forgiveness," he gasped out. "God—will—forgive?"