She tore her veil from her face: their lips met, and her head rested a moment, sobbing on his shoulder.
"Hush! don't cry, Ethel dear, don't cry. You have made me so glad. . . . And you will remember to take the box . . . And you will think of me sometimes . . . And I shall pray God to make you happy, and I shall wait for you, Ethel, and be with you in thought, and if you have trouble, you will know that I shall be sorrowing with you. Isn't it so, dear? . . . Now, good-bye, dear one—good-bye. May God watch over you."
She had moved away. She came back again, however, and kissed his forehead reverently. But he was not aware of her return, for his mind had begun to wander.
She brushed past Mrs. Parkin in the passage, bidding her an incoherent good-bye: she was instinctively impatient to escape to the protection of familiar surroundings. Inside the house, she felt helpless, dizzy: the melodrama of the whole scene had stunned her senses, and pity for him was rushing through her in waves of pulsing emotion.
As she passed the various landmarks, which she had noted on her outward journey—a group of Scotch firs, a roofless cattle-shed, a pile of felled trees—each seemed to wear an altered aspect. With what a strange suddenness it had all happened! Yesterday the groom had brought back word that he was in delirium, and had told her of the loneliness of the house. It had seemed so sad, his lying ill, all alone: the thought had preyed on her conscience, till she had started to drive out there to inquire if there were anything she could do to help him. Now, every corner round which the cart swung, lengthened the stretch of road that separated her from that tragic scene in his room . . . Perhaps it was not right for her to drive home and leave him? But she couldn't bear to stay: it was all so dreadful. Besides, she assured herself, she could dono
