But it was no dream; for an hour later you might have seen a manly form sitting in that selfsame place, bearing in his arms a pale figure which he cherished as tenderly as a mother her babe. And they were talking together,--talking in low tones; and in all this wide universe neither of them knew or felt anything but the great joy of being thus side by side. They spoke of love mightier than death, which many waters cannot quench. They spoke of yearnings, each for the other,--of longing prayers,--of hopes deferred,--and then of this great joy,--for _one_ had hardly yet returned to the visible world. Scarce wakened from deadly faintness, she had not come back fully to the realm of life,--only to that of love,--to love which death cannot quench. And therefore it was, that, without knowing that she spoke, she had said all, and compressed the history of those three years into one hour. But at last, thoughtful of her health, provident of her weakness, he rose up and passed his arm around her to convey her home. And as he did so, he spoke one word that broke the whole charm. "You will allow me, Mary, the right of a future husband, to watch over your life and health." Then came back the visible world,--recollection, consciousness, and the great battle of duty,--and Mary drew away a little, and said,-- "Oh, James, you are too late! that can never be!" He drew back from her. "Mary, are you married?" "Before God, I am," she said, "My word is pledged. I cannot retract it. I have suffered a good man to place his whole faith upon it,--a man who loves me with his whole soul." "But, Mary, you do not love _him_. _That_ is impossible!" said James, holding her off from him, and looking at her with an agonized eagerness. "After what you have just said, it is not possible." "Oh, James! I am sure I don't know what I have said,--it was all so sudden, and I didn't know what I was saying,--but things that I must never say again. The day is fixed for next week. It is all the same as if you had found me his wife." "Not quite," said James, his voice cutting the air with a decided manly ring. "I have some words to say to that yet." "Oh, James, will you be selfish? will you tempt me to do a mean, dishonorable thing? to be false to my word deliberately given?" "But," said James, eagerly, "you know, Mary, you _never_ would have given it, if you had known that I was living." "That is true, James; but I _did_ give it. I have suffered him to build all his hopes of life upon it. I _beg_ you not to tempt me,--help me to do right!" "But, Mary, did you not get my letter?" "Your letter?" "Yes,--that long letter that I wrote you." "I never got any letter, James." "Strange!" he said. "No wonder it seems sudden to you!" "Have you seen your mother?" said Mary, who was conscious this moment only of a dizzy instinct to turn the conversation from where she felt too weak to bear it. "No; do you suppose I should see anybody before you?"