"The price of love is heavy."
"No matter the price, I will pay it gladly." There was no mistaking the gladness and the courage which rang in the words.
"Poor child! poor child!" said Isabella softly.
"Do not pity me. There is no need for pity," she said earnestly. "Isabella—if I lost him—to-morrow—still, I have known—but he is not going to die, he is going to live."
"The doctor thinks so?"
"Yes; he says there is no reason why he should not live out his allotted span of life—those were his words."
Isabella did not speak—she was thinking only of Francis, and not at all of the girl beside her. Which was best for him? Would it not be kinder, happier, if he died now before he knew? Her face was very grave and sad; so much so, indeed, that Philippa repeated the words she had spoken, "He will not die. And I have promised to marry him."
"The difficulties are enormous." The words broke from Isabella half against her will. Of what use to speak of difficulties to the girl whose mind refused to acknowledge the existence of any?
"I have planned it all," continued Philippa, without heeding Isabella's words. "We shall be married and go straight abroad. It would not be good for him to be in England for the winter. He needs brightness and warmth and sunshine, and I shall take him to some quiet place where he can have them—where there is no one he has ever known before, to disturb him, or make him worry because he does not remember."
"Do you think he tries to remember?"