“For I am,” she said, “so soon to lose you altogether, that I want to make the most of the short remaining time.” But Imelda was longing to be alone.
“Not tonight, dear. Tonight you must excuse me. I cannot help it, but I have so much to think about, so much to do yet. But tomorrow night, if you wish I will come and remain with you,” and with that Margaret had to be content. “Instead,” Imelda went on, “I would have you come with me. It is not so very late yet, and a walk will do you good. Wilbur will make it doubly pleasant coming back. What say you?” But now it was Margaret’s turn to shake her head and say:
“Not tonight. But that does not mean that you will be permitted to go home alone. Wilbur will take care of you. Will you not?” Wilbur smiled.
“It seems I have nothing to say in the matter but am quietly disposed of,” he said with a spice of mischief, “the arrangement suits me, however, so I will not object. Or, have you objections, little girlie?” He looked at Imelda in such a quizzing manner that the tell-tale blood dyed the pale cheeks to a dark crimson.
“If you desire objections, Mr. Impudence, it will not be a difficult matter to satisfy you.” Whereupon the young man, in mock humility, begged her not to deal with him too severely, plead for pardon, and solemnly promised that he would not offend again. Thus laughing and jesting they prepared to part for the night. Ready to start Imelda stood some moments at the door gazing up into the starlit heavens. Wilbur in the meantime wound his arm tenderly about his beloved Margaret. For a moment she was enfolded in a close embrace; pressed to his manly breast, his lips closed over hers in a tender clinging kiss. “My own precious one,” he murmured,—“you love me?”
“As my life.”
Again their lips met, then he stepped forward to Imelda’s side and together they walked toward the humble home of the girl. For awhile neither spoke, and when at last their voices did find utterance it was only to speak of commonplace matters. Their hearts were too full to converse much; least of all of that which was uppermost in their minds. Imelda’s leaving would make a great change for them all, and Wilbur felt that it would make a decided change in his life. He almost feared to give expression to his feelings,—certainly not under the starlit heavens. So, when after a quiet walk through the nearly silent streets, they reached the home which soon would know Imelda no longer, he stopped, loth to leave her, and she, as if divining his thought, simply said, “Come,” and just as simply he followed her up the three flights of stairs into the little room where he threw himself into an arm chair at the open window. Imelda was about to strike a light when he said:
“Don’t, please; come and sit here with me. It is easier to talk with only the light of the moon.” And Imelda did as he requested, moving her chair so that she sat just opposite him, but for awhile it seemed that the moon, which was full and flooded the city with its pale silvery glory, was not going to prove an inspiration to conversation, for the moments slipped by until half an hour had passed, and as yet neither had spoken. But now Wilbur turned and laid his hand gently upon that of the dreaming girl.
“Imelda!” Low, soft, tremulous, the name dropped from his lips. She started. Why was it that the mere sound of her name should thrill her so?
“Imelda!” Again the low-spoken name came to her ear like sweet, thrilling music, and suddenly, ere she knew how it had happened, she found herself encircled by two strong arms, her head pillowed upon the heaving breast, and the bearded lips pressed close to hers in a burning kiss. Tender words and endearing names greeted her ear.