“Yes,” and over the marble face there shone a smile of almost seraphic sweetness. “You are Marian—my Marian—Frederic’s Marian—Dinah’s Marian—All of us Marian!” and with a low, hysterical cry the blind girl crept close to the bosom of her long lost friend.
Stretching out her feeble arms she wound them round Marian’s neck, and raising herself upon her elbow, kissed her lips, her cheek, her forehead, her hair, whispering all the time, “Blessed Marian—precious Marian—beautiful Marian—our Marian—Frederic’s, and mine, and everybody’s. Oh, I don’t want to go to heaven now: I’d rather stay with you. Call him—call Frederic, quick, and tell him. Why haven’t you told him before? Ho, Frederic, come here!” and the feeble voice raised to its highest pitch, went ringing through the room and penetrated even to the adjoining chamber, where, since Alice’s illness, Frederic had slept.
“Alice,” said Marian, “if you love me, you will not tell him now. I am not ready yet.”
“What if I should die?” Alice asked, and Marian replied:
“You won’t die. I almost know you won’t. Promise, Alice, promise,” she continued, as she heard Frederic’s step in the hall without.
“How can I—how can I? It will choke me to death!” was Alice’s answer, and the next moment Frederic had crossed the threshold of the door.
“What is it, Miss Grey?” he asked. “Didn’t you call?”
“Alice is rather excited, that’s all,” said Marian, “and you can go back. We do not wish to disturb you.”
“Frederic,” came a faint whisper from the bedside, and knowing that farther remonstrance was useless, Marian stood like a rock, while Frederic advanced toward the child, who lay with her head thrown back, the great tears rolling down her cheeks, and the great joy of what she had heard, shining out all over her little face.
“Did you want me, birdie?” he asked, but ere he had ceased speaking, Marian was at his side.