Time was when his blood had run like fire with those arms about his neck, and that dark head on his breast, but how strangely all was altered now, and what a deep depression hung over him, though he tried to hide it from those searching, dark eyes, and to outdo her in the warmth of his greeting.
“Dear Frank, how pale and ill you look! And—and—you do not kiss me as of old. Are you vexed with me because I would not consent to a sick-bed wedding?” archly.
“No, no, dear; why should I be? It was better to wait and have a public wedding so as to display your lovely bridal gown, of course,” he answered, forcing a smile.
“And you were not impatient?”
“I was too ill for that, you know.”
“Poor Frank! How you must have suffered! I hope you were not vexed that I did not come to see you. But they told me you were looking so frightfully ill I had not the heart lest I should scold you, for, after all, everything was your own fault, you know, going to that girl’s funeral.”
“Do not let us bring that subject up again, Cora. I only did what I thought was my duty.”
“Duty! That kept you from your own wedding!” she cried reproachfully. “Only for that we should be married now.”
“We can be married to-morrow if you are willing, Cora.”
“Nonsense! How could we? All the arrangements will have to be made over again. And my maid of honor is out of town—gone South for a month.”