ankle," says Simpkins, thoughtfully. "That's a long way from the nurseries, and down a passage; don't you think that might do, Miss Nell?"
"Yes, that will do," I say, feverishly. "Go and have it prepared at once, and ask nurse to have the bed made up instantly; I will come in when all is ready. Oh, Wattie, Wattie!" I say, with a shuddering, long-drawn sob, as Simpkins goes away, "could I bear to lose you, my flower, my angel?"
But his face gives me no answer. The black lashes lie heavy and shadowy on the smooth, fair cheeks: he looks as healthy and strong and vigorous as ever he did in his life before, but somehow, somehow, I seem to see the outstretched hand waiting to touch him. . . . In my agony I clasp him so tightly that he awakes, and opens sleepy, misty eyes that, when they fall on me, smile in concert with his lips. He stretches himself, and kisses me with a child's spontaneous, unasked-for caress, than which nothing more precious can be found on the whole earth, for it can neither be bought, or forced, or stolen.
I was always jealous about the people I loved; I never cared to be liked by people who liked everybody else as well as me—I like to be the only one beloved. It is the most exquisite of flattery to be preferred by one who affords his favours to few; and the fact that Wattie has never been known to volunteer an embrace to any living person save me enhances its value a thousand-fold.
His hand is cool enough as I take it in mine, and we go back through the long shadows to the house. He is backward with his talk yet; but he has a language of his own that I understand, and we talk the funniest shibboleth as we go along.
The house seems very cool and quiet after the outside world, and Wattie is somewhat awed, and takes a firmer clutch at my hand as we go down the long stone passage, on whose matting so
