“It was all so beautiful until he came,” she said dreamily; “I have been so happy with you, dear, so happy.”
There was infinite regret and infinite tenderness in her all but inarticulate speech.
They were silent for a while, then Margaret said: “It is good-by we are saying, Franz. Who would imagine there would be so little to say?”
Franz bent over her, desolation in his soul.
“What was that?” she asked, her voice fainter than before.
“I thought it very quiet, dear,” he answered. “Perhaps it is the wind.”
“How many days ago was it?” she questioned.
“You mean when you were taken ill, dear? It was four days ago.”
“So many days ago as that? Where are the others?”
“They are here. My mother, Mrs. Perkins, Ballard and Philip. Would you like to see them, dear?”