"That you would never leave me. Don't you remember saying that?"
"What would you care for me when you were strong and well?" falters the nurse, with quivering lips.
The sick man tries to set his poor paralyzed brain in thinking order at this contingency, but the effort is far beyond him, and he relapses with an anxious sigh.
"I do not want to drift away and be pushed back into the cruel world I have left," he murmurs, earnestly, "and it lies with you to keep me in this pure place. I lost you ages ago, you know—ages ago, when I was pure and loving as yourself; and see what I am now for want of you, Perdita?"
"You will soon enough be glad to part from me again," answers the nurse, turning aside her swimming eyes.
"Must you go, Perdita, after your promise?"
"I must go when I have ceased to make one moment lighter for you. I promised that I would stay until then."
"Promise it again—you will stay until you cease to be desired by me."
"Until I cease to be required by you," she amends, straining him to her yearning and foreboding heart.
"I shall always require you," said the sick man, with exultation; "I could not take one step in this pure atmosphere without you. Oh, you don't know how I shall hold to you, my lost Perdita."