"Thank you," she said after a slight start, "I could not take your money. It is very good of you, but I would rather you didn't speak of it. If you talked forever, I wouldn't consent."
"Mamie——"
"The very offer turns me cold. Please don't!"
"You're cruel," he said. "You're refusing to let me prolong your life. Have I deserved that from you?"
"Oh!" she cried, in a tortured voice, "for God's sake, don't press me! Leave me something—I won't say 'self-respect,' but a vestige, a grain of proper pride. Think what my feelings would be, living on money from you—it wouldn't prolong my life, George; it would kill me sooner. You've been generous and merciful to me; be merciful to me still and talk of something else."
"You are asking me to stand by and see you die. I have feelings, too, Mamie. I can't do it!"
"I'm dying," she said; "if it happens a little sooner, or a little later, does it matter very much? If you want to be very kind to me, to—to brighten the time that remains as much as you can, tell me that if I send to you when—when it's a question of days, you'll come to the place and see me again. I'd bless you for that! I've been afraid to ask you till now; but it would mean more to me than anything else you could do. Would you, if I sent?"
"Why," said Heriot labouredly, after another pause, "why would it mean so much?"
They were leaning over the taffrail; and suddenly her head was bent, and she broke into convulsive sobs that tore his breast.
"Mamie!" he exclaimed. "Mamie, tell me!" He glanced round and laid a trembling touch on her hands. "Tell me, dear!" he repeated hoarsely. "Do you love me, then?"