"Because——" I paused. Ah, no, I must not tell him yet; it is not time. Besides, after all, it may only be my foolish fancy. "Because," I continued, "to take me away from the garden that I love, from our pretty cottage, would be to tear out my heart-strings. Perhaps you will think it sentiment, Dimbie, but I want to finish our year here—our wonderful year. Into the branches and green lace-work of the trees, into the dewy grass, into the sweet-peas and roses, into the beech—which is always so kind and friendly—into the frog-pond, and, above all, into our much-loved apple tree, are woven a thousand beautiful associations and memories. The memories, you will say, will remain with us, be with us wherever we go; but they are not yet complete. This is only August. We have four months left to finish our year. Into those four months may be crowded much happiness, much simple, quiet joy, and the storehouse of our 'looking back' will be full to the brim and running over. Let us finish our year here—you and I and Amelia—and then——"
I turned away to hide my face.
"And then——?"
"Why then," I said softly, "I will do whatever is required of me."
He sat down beside me.
"Your will will always be mine, Marguerite."
YOUR WILL WILL ALWAYS BE MINE, MARGUERITE.
I shook my head.