"Sometimes I have dreamed that it is not true—that he is not dead, but may be living yet. I never could get the particulars, the country was in such turmoil and he was so far away. Somehow the thought has haunted me that some day he will come back."
A strange grim look settled on Reynolds' face.
"He will never come back," he said.
"No," she replied, "I know he will not. It is foolish for me to allow the thought to enter my mind, but it will, and I can not drive it out."
"You must, Agnes, you must," he exclaimed with a rush of passion, "for my sake, love, for my sake."
She sat for a moment in silence, and then, as the tears welled up afresh in her tender eyes, she replied:
"You know how gladly I would, but I can not. It grows upon me since—since I have known you, and it will not be banished. Sometimes I find myself actually going to the door to look—"
"Hush! Oh, Agnes, I can not bear it," he cried, his face growing pale with extreme excitement. "My God! I shall have to tell you all."
"Tell me all?" she plaintively, inquiringly murmured, looking wonderingly at him, for something in his voice, his face, his manner had given to his words a mysterious power.
"Yes, I will tell you, though it drive me from you forever. I see that I must, that it is my duty." He paused and hesitated. "I know," he went on, "that I am rushing into the dark, but I trust you, Agnes, and I know you will do right—you will do no hasty thing. Remember, oh, remember how I love you."