"I love you dearly; although I once told a friend of yours that I would not marry Georgina Beauclerc though there were not another English girl extant. He saw into the future, it may be also into my heart, more clearly than I did."
"You said that? To a friend of mine! Who was it?"
"One who lies buried in the cloisters at Westerbury."
Her eyes went far out again to that light in the west. The words carried her back again to those past days,--to the handsome boy who had so loved her.
"You never cared for him, poor fellow!" observed Mr. St. John.
"No; I never cared but for one in my life," she softly whispered.
"I know that. He was the first to tell me of it. Not that I--as I believe now--needed telling. Georgina, they say marriages are made in heaven; I think we might have seen, even then, that we were destined for each other---- What's the matter?"
Georgina darted away from him as if she had been shot. Her ears were quicker than his. The dean's carriage was approaching; was close upon them.
"I suppose I may speak to him, Georgina?"
"Perhaps if I said no, you wouldn't listen to me. You always did contrive to have your own way, and I suppose you will take it still. But I think you are very unfeeling--very cruel; and I am as bad."