It was a tempest of grief before which the grieving mother was appalled.
She put her arms around him and wept with him in passionate sympathy.
Mr. Beresford stole back to the room so quietly that neither heard him. He hovered over them in perplexity of grief.
At length he saw that the tempestuous sobs were stifled by a manly will, and St. George answered, faintly, to his mother’s implorings:
“Alas! it is too late.”
“No, no, my son! Do not grieve my heart with such cruel words!” she cried. “You will soon be strong enough to come home with us, and then you shall marry when you will. Shall I write to Alva to seek out your betrothed and bring her home to greet you when we return?”
A strangled sob shook the invalid’s form.
“Oh, mother, how good you are to me—just like an angel! I forgive all that there is to forgive, and—there will never be any more discord between us, please Heaven. I shall never have any one to love henceforth but you three—for—for—she is dead!”
“Great Heaven!” cried his mother, in amazement.
“She is dead,” he repeated, with the calmness of despair. “That was the secret of my sickness, dear mother. They wrote to me just after I sent you my last letter, that she was dead—my pure, beautiful little love! There, I can not talk of it even to you, dear, and—— But there is father with a letter.”