"You have always put me off when I was at all inquisitive about you," he says to her, one day; "but since I am getting well so rapidly, I think it time that I should assume a little of the responsibility of my own affairs. I have an appallingly heavy debt of gratitude to pay a kind lady, whose only name to me is Perdita, and I wish to be more particularly acquainted with my deliveress."
"If you would only wait until you were strong enough to travel," answers Margaret, becoming very pale, "it would be for the best."
"Why, where are we to travel, my Perdita?"
"You must prepare your mind for a journey, sir—a journey which will be for your good and happiness."
"With you?"
"Without me."
The desolate tones come quietly enough, but the invalid gives a great start, and clutches at his thin hands, and turns away his face.
Lying so still and so long that she almost thinks him sleeping, she bends timidly over him, and meets his dark eyes full of mournful tears.
"I feared it would come to this," he says, turning almost passionately to her; "and yet I have foolishly and selfishly clung to the hope that you would never seek to leave me. Have I been meddling much with your family duties by this long monopoly of you?"
"I have no family duties to attend to."