The square framed by the window sash was turning grey when there came a movement, and the eyelids of the face on the pillow lifted. Harriet was leaning over before the others, the nurse or doctor, got to the bed, and must have been there when the eyes opened. She must have seen consciousness of her presence in them, too, and possibly questioning, for she spoke rapidly, eagerly, like one who had said the thing over and over in readiness for the moment, though her voice shook. "You said you loved me from your soul, and, living or dead, would go on loving and wanting my love?" There seemed no wonder in the voice replying, only content. There was even the usual touch of humour in his reply. "And will go on wanting your love," he said. "But I am here to tell you how I love you," she returned. The room was still, like death. Then in the man's voice: "Is this pity, Harriet?" Her voice hurried on. "And how, living or dead, I will go on loving and wanting you." It was no pity that trembled in her voice, it was passion. He moved. After a time he spoke again. It was to call her name, to say it as to himself. This time he knew it was love this woman was talking of, not pity. "I could not bear it that you should not know," she hurried on to tell him. "I made them let me come to you." "You know then, Harriet; they have told you?" She was human; the sound that broke from her was the cry of a rent soul. The doctor, who had gone back to the mantel, crouched over the fire. The Sister seemed to shrink into the shadows beyond the narrow bed. Alexina clenched her hands, her head on her arms outstretched on the table. But Harriet had regained herself. "I am here to ask you something. May I be married to you--now--at once, I mean?" His response was not audible, only her reply. "Oh, surely you will. For the rest of my life--to have been--you will give me this, won't you?" There was a quick movement from him, and a sound of warning from the nurse who moved forward out of the shadow. Material things seemed to come back to Harriet. Alarm sprang into her voice. "Shall I go away?" she asked the nurse, even timidly. The answer came from him. "No; oh, no. Since it may be for so little time I may ask it of you; stay with me, Harriet." She turned to the doctor. "Stay," he told her, poor boy, new to these things. "Then give me my way," Harriet begged, turning back again. She had forgotten the others already. "You said that after what happened between you and Austen you wanted it known how you felt to me. Haven't I the same right and more, since it was my brother who said it, to want the world to know how I feel to you?" They could feel the laugh in his reply. "The world, the world, as if you ever cared for what the world--come, be honest, Harriet; you say this in the generous desire of making it up to me."