be to me? I am going to scold you for it by-and-by, sir; but I shall have plenty of time for that—plenty of time! And I was wicked enough to doubt you, Paul—as though I might not have known better! I had all sorts of queer fancies. But I will never be afraid again, Paul—never again. I could even let you go away from me and be quite sure you would come back safely."
How silent Paul is! because he is so happy, I suppose; and how quickly he is breathing, as though he had been running hard.
"And you have come back to me on Christmas morning," I say, dreamily, "to give me the whitest, happiest, merriest Christmas. Do you know I asked George Tempest to wish me a merry Christmas just now, and he turned away. I suppose he is very tired, as you must be, darling."
I lift my head to look at his face, but he presses my head back in its place, stroking my face with his hand with a passionate tenderness that fills to overflowing my hungry heart.
"How quiet you are," I say; "but I do not want to hear you talk—it is quite enough for me to know that I have you so near me. What can come between us now that we are together?"
He draws my hand across his lips. How hot they are! how they quiver!
The church bells ring out sweet and cheerful across the fields; the peal rises and falls gaily. Can any sound be sweeter than Christmas bells when one is happy?
"Paul," I say in a whisper, "did you see that wicked paper? I might have known you would not believe it."
"It is cold here," he says; and I lift my head suddenly, and look into his face.
Is this my Paul—gaunt and worn, and pale as death, with deep burning eyes? He looks like a man just risen from a bed of illness.
