'It'll make us remember the same things,' she murmured.
'As if we wanted anything to make us remember!'
'George!' her voice was almost a sob—'It's been almost too perfect.
Sometimes—just for that—I'm afraid.'
'Don't be, darling. The God we believe in isn't a jealous God! That's one of the notions one grows out of—over there.'
'Do you think He's our friend, George—that He really cares?'
The sweet appealing voice touched him unbearably.
'Yes, I do think it—' he said, firmly, after a pause. 'I do believe it—with all my heart.'
'Then I'll believe it!' she said, with a long breath; and there was silence again, till suddenly over the water came the sound of the Rydal Chapel bell, striking midnight. Nelly withdrew her hands and sat up.
'George, we must go home. You must have a good night.'
He obeyed her, took up the oars, and pulled swiftly to the boathouse. She sat in a kind of dream. It was all over, the heavenly time—all done. She had had the very best of life—could it ever come again? In her pain and her longing she was strangely conscious of growth and change. The Nelly of three weeks back seemed to have nothing to do with her present self, to be another human being altogether.