“George, trust me, love me,” she pleaded.
“My beloved, do I not love you?” he protested passionately, clasping her in his arms, kissing away her tears, soothing her as if she had been a child. “My dearest and best, from the first hour I awakened to a new life in your love my truth has never wavered, my heart has never known change.”
“And yet you are changed—since our darling went—terribly changed.”
“Do you wonder that I grieve for her?”
“No, but you grieve apart—you hold yourself aloof from me.”
“If I do it is because I do not want you to share my burden, Mildred. Your sorrow may be cured, perhaps—mine never can be. Time may be merciful to you—for me time can do nothing.”
“Dearest, what hope can there be for me that you do not share?—the Christian’s hope of meeting our loved one hereafter. I have no other hope.”
“I hardly know if I have that hope,” he answered slowly, with deepest despondency.
“And yet you are a Christian.”
“If to endeavour to follow Christ, the Teacher and Friend of humanity, is to be a Christian—yes.”