"I try to picture what our future life will be together, Harry," she murmured.
"Don't let us talk about it!" he exclaimed, impatiently.
"But I like to," she insisted. "It is my constant thought by night and by day. And, oh! I shall try to make you so happy. I shall go out dining with you every day, if you like, and I will always wear a little veil over my face, that no one need know as they pass us by that your bride is blind. And I shall try to be so wise, and learn to talk with you upon the subjects you love best. You will not be ashamed of me, will you, Harry?"
This with wistful eagerness pitiful to behold.
"I do wish, Dorothy, that you would cease your harping on the same old subject!" he cried, worriedly. "You annoy me so!"
"Annoy you?" whispered Dorothy, half under her breath. "Why, I did not know that we could say anything to those we love which could make them vexed at us, because I thought we were:
"'Two souls with but a single thought,
Two hearts that beat as one.'
It seems, Harry, as though we had so little time to talk with each other now. And, oh! how I miss those little chats we used to have together; don't you?"
"You talk like a child, Dorothy," he cried. "Do you expect me to be dancing attendance upon you all the time?"
"No; I have ceased to expect that," murmured the girl, choking back a sob—"especially lately."