“I knew it when the pain was over, and I could lie and think. It was all so clear to me then. I had escaped a terrible danger; but for the fall”--her voice sank--“I might never have known this happiness. I was in ceaseless fear lest you should have gone. I asked often if you had called; if you had known how I longed for your name among those who called! There was no need of occupation for me. It was quite enough to lie and think of our talks together, to call back your voice and your look. Oh, I _longed_ to send a word to you; you were so lonely, so unhappy. All that is over now, dearest? You will never again be comfortless?” “Dare I think that, Isabel?” “When I love you?” “That again!” He covered his face with his hands. “Once more!” “With my soul I love you!” “If I could but hear that for ever! Shall I hear it when this hour has become part of our memory, in days after this? Dare I think of it as music that I may hear at will?” “It shall never fail you, if your ear does not weary.” “If my eyes weary of the light of heaven?” There was silence before Isabel spoke. “Ada’s marriage has been postponed on account of my illness; it would have taken place before this. When it is over, and I have discharged my duty to the end, then----” She paused, not avoiding his gaze, but meeting it with simplest truth, her lips trembling a little. “I shall have my three hundred a year,” she added, almost pleadingly. “Can we not make it enough? Do you know that the Vissians live on less than that?” Kingcote dropped his eyes, and spoke with embarrassment. “To me it is wealth. For you, even alone, it would be miserable poverty. How can I accept such a sacrifice?” “A sacrifice? Is that your measure of my love?” He kissed her hand, then asked laughingly: “What do you think my own income is? You dare not guess. I am richer than Goldsmith’s country parson; I have full sixty pounds.” “Why, then, are we not wealthy? That is the rent of a delightful house, somewhere far away. Might we not go abroad? Would you,” she added anxiously, “go abroad with me?” “Dear, can you so change your life?” “It is changed. There is no effort asked of me. I live only for you.” “Your friends?” “My friends? One, two, three at most; those I need not lose. My acquaintances, three hundred at least; ah! let them go! It shall be a new world. What need have I of friends? _You_ are my friend, my one, sole friend! I will have no other. Oh, you will not weary of me? I bring you so little--my ignorance, my foolish habits of thought. You will be patient with me, and help me to become more the kind of woman suitable for--for your wife?” The flush in her cheeks had become steadfast; her eyes gleamed unnaturally. Each word she spoke heightened the fever which was gaining upon her. He noticed this. “I have been wrong to let you talk so much,” he said gravely. “You are tired; you will suffer.” “No, I shall sleep, and with such peace in my heart as I have never known.”