“Perhaps, and perhaps not. At any rate,” putting her hands in his, and looking at him with brave, loving eyes, “I would not undo one of those days—in the garden! No, nor an hour of them. They are precious to me. And for forgiving, I have nothing to forgive and nothing to regret, if we never meet again, Clement. But we shall meet. What if you have to begin the world again? We are both young. You will work for me. And do you think that I will not wait for you, wait until you have climbed up again, or until something happens to bring us together? Do you not know that I love you more now, far more, in your unhappiness—that you are more to me, a thousand times more to-day—than in your prosperity?” “Oh, Jos!” He could say no more, but his swimming eyes spoke for him. “But you must leave it to me now,” she continued. “After all, things may turn out better than you think. You may not be ruined. People may not be so foolish as to want all their money at once. Have hope, and—and remember that I am always here, though you do not see me or hear from me; that I am always here, thinking of you, waiting for you, loving you, always yours, Clement, till you come—though it be ten years hence.” “Oh, Jos!” His eyes were overflowing now. “You believe me, you do believe me, don’t you?” she said. “And now you must go. But kiss me first. No, I do not mind who sees us, or who knows that I am yours now. I am past that.” He took her in his arms and kissed her, not as he would have kissed her an hour before, with passion, but in reverence and humility, in love too sacred for words. Never till now had he known what a woman’s love was, how much it gave, how little it asked, how pure in its highest form it could be—and how strong! Nor ever till now had he known her, this girl to whom he had once presumed to teach firmness, whose weakness he had taken on himself to guide, whom he had thought to encourage, to strengthen, to arm—he, who had not been worthy to kiss the hem of her robe! Oh, the wonderful power of love, which had transformed her! Which had made her what she was, and now laid him in the dust before her! Work for her, wait for her, live for her? Ah, would he not, and deem himself happy though the years brought him no nearer, though the memory of her, transfiguring his whole life, proved his only and full reward! CHAPTER XXIX