See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand—
There, that is our secret! go to sleep;
You will wake, and remember and understand.
In that lovely dream he—Frank Laurier—had pressed his lips on her golden hair, had kissed a rose and crushed it between her folded hands. Was it only a dream?
Yes, how could it be aught but a dream? He who had trifled with her, scorned her while living, how could he have changed when she lay dead?
The tears brimmed over in her eyes as she thought:
“How foolish I am, dwelling on such fancies. Of course, I have been ill—not dead!—and dreamed all about these people who care naught for me.”
Leon Dalrymple took her hand and looked at her with tender pity.
“My dear little one, do you feel well enough to go back with me over the cruel past?” he asked abruptly.
She assented eagerly, and with some evasions that he deemed necessary, he gave her a brief résumé of his life.