“I love you, Earle; I never have loved any one but you; and I shall love only you as long as my life shall last,” she said, solemnly, her grave, sweet eyes lifted with a beautiful trust to his face.
“Bless you, my ‘happiness;’ I cannot help calling you that, it is so fitting; those words will ring sweetly in my ears all the long months I am separated from you.”
He bent and touched her white forehead with his lips, then, with a long, fond embrace, he bade her farewell and went away.
At half-past eleven the next morning Editha Dalton’s carriage might have been seen drawn close to the wharf near where the great steamer which was to bear her lover across the ocean lay panting like a thing of life in mortal agony.
Earle had said he could not come to see her again, but she had resolved to go to see him off instead.
She must look once more into his face, and hear him speak again in the tones that had grown so dear to her.
Her fair face looked forth from the carriage window, her eager eyes anxiously searching the countenance of each new-comer as he hurried toward the boat anxious to secure his state-room and get settled for the voyage.
Perhaps, after all, she thinks, as she looks in vain for the beloved face, she was foolish to come, and will miss him in the throng and confusion.
But her heart longs inexpressibly for one last look, and word, and hand-clasp, and she resolves to linger until the last moment.