“Yes,” said Iola, with a proud little laugh, “I think the dear old Spectator was right when it said it was a truly great performance, but I waited for you, and waited and waited, and when you didn't come I found that all the rest was nothing to me without you. Oh, how I wanted you, Barney, then—and ever since!”
“If I had only known!” groaned Barney.
“Now, Barney, we are not to go back. We are to take all the joy out of this hour. Promise me, Barney, you will not blame yourself—now or ever—promise me, promise me!” she cried, eagerly insistent.
“But I do, Iola.”
“Oh, Barney! promise me this, we will look forward, not back, will you, Barney?” The pleading in her voice swept away all feeling but the desire to gratify her.
“I promise you, Iola, and I keep my word.”
“Yes, you do, Barney. Oh, thank you, darling.” She wreathed her arms about his neck and laid her head upon his breast. “Oh!” she said with a deep sigh, “I shall rest now—rest—rest. That's what I've been longing for. I could not rest, Barney.”
Barney shuddered. Only too well he knew the meaning of that fateful restlessness, but he only held her closer to him, his heart filled with a fierce refusal of his lot.
“There is no one like you, Barney, after all,” she murmured, nestling down with a delicious sigh of content. “You are so strong. You will make me strong, I know. I feel stronger already, stronger than for months.”
Again Barney shuddered at that cruel deception, so characteristic of the treacherous disease.