I did not deign to reply.
“May be,” she muttered, “the day after.”
’Twas hard to believe it of her. “Bessie,” I began, ignoring her folly, “afore the doctor went, he left a message for you.”
Her hands went swiftly to her bosom. “For me?” she whispered. “Ah, tell me, Davy!”
“I’m just about t’ tell,” said I, testily. “But, sure, ’tis nothin’ t’ put you in a state. When he come t’ my room,” I proceeded, “at dawn, t’ say good-bye, he left a message. ‘Tell her,’ said he, ‘that I love her.’”
It seemed to me, then, that she suffered—that she felt some glorious agony: of which, as I thought, lads could know nothing. And I wondered why.
“That he loves me!” she murmured.
“No,” said I. “‘Tell her not that,’ said he,” I went on. “‘Tell her that I loved her.’”
“Not that!” she cried. “’Twas that he loves me—not that he loved me!”
“’Twas that he loved you.”