She could not rise, but as I entered her bright eyes sparkled with sudden unbounded delight, and speechless in emotion she beckoned me forward to a seat beside her.
“And you are much better, dearest?” I asked, when we had exchanged kisses full of a profound and passionate love.
“Yes,” she answered, in a voice which showed how weak she still was. “The doctor says I shall get on quite well now. In a week or so I hope to be about again. Do they know of my illness at the shop?”
“Don’t trouble about the shop, darling,” I answered. “You will never go back there again, to slave and wear out your life. Remain here content, and when you are well enough you can go down to Stamford and stay there in the country air until we can marry.”
“Then you still love me, Clifton?” she faltered.
“Love you!” I cried. “Of course I do, dearest. What causes you to doubt me?”
She hesitated. Her eyes met mine, and I saw they were wavering.
“Because—because I am unworthy,” she faltered.
“Why unworthy?” I asked, quickly.
“I have deceived you,” she replied. “You are so good to me, Clifton, yet I have concealed from you the truth.”