‘Alma, I cannot!’
‘You must. You say you owe me reparation; let your reparation be this—to grant my last request.’
‘But it is a mockery!’ he pleaded. ‘Alma, if you knew how hollow, how empty of all living faith, my soul had become!’
‘Your faith is not dead,’ she replied.
‘Even if it be, He who works miracles will restore it to life. Promise to do as I beseech you, and be sure then of my forgiveness.
Promise!’
‘I promise,’ he said at last, unable to resist her.
‘Good-bye!’ she said, holding out her hand, which he took sobbing and covered with kisses. ‘I shall go away to some still place abroad where I may try to find peace. I may write to you sometimes, may I not? Surely there will be no sin in that! Yes, I will write to you; and you—you will let me know that you are well and happy.’
‘O Alma!’ he sobbed, falling on his knees before her, ‘my love! my better angel! I have destroyed you, I have trampled on the undriven snow!’
‘God is good,’ she answered. ‘Perhaps even this great sorrow is sent upon us in mercy, not in wrath. I will try to think so! Once more, good-bye!’