After a while her eyes seemed to clear of the visions, and she said,
'What changes have come upon us both, Henry. since that childish betrothal on the sands!'
'Happy changes for one of the child-lovers,' I said—'happy changes for the one who was then a lonely cripple shut out from all sympathy save that which the other child-lover could give.'
'And yet you then seemed happy, Henry—happy with Winnie to help you up the gangways. And how happy Winnie was! But now the child-lover is a cripple no longer: he is very, very strong—he is so strong that he could carry Winnie up the gangways in his arms, I think.'
The thrill of natural pride which such recognition of my physical powers would otherwise have given me was quelled by a something in the tone in which she spoke.
'And he is powerful in every way,' she went on, as if talking to herself. 'He is a great rich Englishman to whom (as auntie was never tired of saying) that childish betrothal must needs seem a dream—a quaint and pretty dream.'
'And so your aunt said that, Winnie. How far from the truth she was you see to-night.'
'Yes, she thought you would forget all about me; and yet she could not have felt quite confident about it, for she made me promise that if you should not forget me—if you should ever ask me what you have just asked—she made me promise—'
'What, Winnie? what? She did not make promise that you would refuse me?'
'That is what she asked me to promise.'