He himself went for her—out into the bright light of that fresh spring morning. Annie Brunel, when he found her, was in her poor lodgings, dressed in the simple black dress in which he had last seen her.
"I was going up to see Dove," she said, "when I heard she had sent for me. But—is there anything the matter?"
"Dove is ill," he said, abruptly. "I—I cannot tell you. But she wants you to come and—play a piece of music for her."
Neither of them spoke a word all the way to the house. When Annie Brunel, pale and calm and beautiful, went to the girl, and took up her white hand, and kissed her, there was a pleased smile on Dove's face.
"Why didn't they tell me you were ill?" she said. "I should have been here before."
"I know that," said Dove, in a whisper, "for—for you have always been kind to me. You have come in time—but I am too weak to tell you—ask Will—the betrothal——"
The brief explanation was speedily given; and then Dove said—
"I am very tired. Will you go into the next room, and play me 'The Coulin;' and when you come back——?"
She went to Dove's piano, and found there the air which she knew so well. And as she played it, so softly that it sounded like some bitter sad leave-taking that the sea had heard and murmured over, Dove lay and listened with a strange look on her face. Will's hand was in hers, and she drew him down to her, and whispered—
"I could have been so happy with you, Will: so very happy, I think. But I had no right to be. Where is the—the paper—I was to sign?"