“No, I only love you,” she said. “And that makes it seem as if you had been one with my life from the first. Ah, can you think of time?”
“God knows, of nothing,” he answered; he held his ungloved hand out as if to take hers, but she fell back.
“Ah, don’t touch me,” she said unsteadily. “Not yet—not yet. I am so happy, that I am afraid, and if you touch me you may break the spell, and my dream go away.”
He laughed gently.
“But this is no dream, sweetheart, do you not hear the anthem yonder in the church? And all around us the graves? There are no graves in dreams.”
“Nor surely often such joy on earth,” whispered Delia. “As mine—as mine—yet what have I said? Shame should hold me silent—but you have disarmed me and laid me defenseless at your feet—ah, leave me, for I have said too much!”
He laid his hand very lightly on her shoulder.
“You make mine unworthiness a heavy thing,” he said somberly. “If you are sincere—Delia—”
She thought he doubted her, and her pure face paled and flushed.
“Alas! you had not said that had I been silent longer,” she cried. “You carried my heart too soon to value it—yet if you love me—”