"Yes, dearest friend; and if I never come back, you must not quite forget me."
"Christie! Christie! my wife! my injured, long-suffering wife, do not talk so! I cannot bear it!" said Willard Drummond, passionately; for every word of that sorrowful parting had been like a dagger to his heart.
She came over with the old, trusting love of happier times, when that love first filled her heart, and clasping her hands on his shoulder, she dropped her face on his breast, and softly murmured:
"Dearest Willard! it is better so. I am not afraid to die now, after what I have heard to-night. And—do not be hurt, dearest love—but I have no wish to live. You will be happy with her—with Sibyl; and I—I will pray for you both, and love you both in heaven."
"Oh, Christie! oh, my wife!" he cried, clasping her in his arms, with a passionate cry; "am I only to realize the treasure I have lost when it is too late."
"Not too late, Willard; if it will help to make you a better, a holier man, it is not too late. There are many happy days for you, for Sibyl, for me—yet to come."
"Wretch, wretch, that I have been!" he groaned, in bitter grief. "Why was I doomed to bring misery and death on all who ever loved me?"
"Oh, Willard, hush! You break my heart!" said Christie, lifting her golden head off his breast. "You must not talk in that wild way. And we are losing time staying here, when every second is more precious than untold gold," she added, starting up. "Come, Willard, come."
While she spoke, Uncle Reuben, who had passed out unobserved, re-entered.
"Good-by, once more, Uncle Reuben," said Christie, "we are going."