"I will—I will. It is going."
"It has done its office."
The clouds closed over the small orifice, and all was gloom again as before.
"Flora," said Charles, "you will not ask me now to leave you?"
She allowed him to clasp her to his heart. It was beating for her, and for her only.
"You will let me, Flora, love you still?"
Her voice, as she answered him, was like the murmur of some distant melody the ears can scarcely translate to the heart.
"Charles we will live, love, and die together."
And now there was a wrapt stillness in that summer-house for many minutes—a trance of joy. They did not speak, but now and then she would look into his face with an old familiar smile, and the joy of his heart was near to bursting in tears from his eyes.
A shriek burst from Flora's lips—a shriek so wild and shrill that it awakened echoes far and near. Charles staggered back a step, as if shot, and then in such agonised accents as he was long indeed in banishing the remembrance of, she cried,—