since that childish
betrothal on the sands!'
'Happy changes for one of the child-lovers,' I said--'happy changes
for the one who was then a lonely cripple shut out from all sympathy
save that which the other child-lover could give.'
'And yet you then seemed happy, Henry--happy with Winnie to help you
up the gangways. And how happy Winnie was! But now the child-lover is
a cripple no longer: he is very, very strong--he is so strong that he
could carry Winnie up the gangways in his arms, I think.'
The thrill of natural pride which such recognition of my physical
powers would otherwise have given me was quelled by a something in
the tone in which she spoke.
'And he is powerful in every way,' she went on, as if talking to
herself. 'He is a great rich Englishman to whom (as auntie was never
tired of saying) that childish betrothal must needs seem a dream--a
quaint and pretty dream.'
'And so your aunt said that, Winnie. How far from the truth she was
you see to-night.'
'Yes, she thought you would forget all about me; and yet she could
not have felt quite confident about it, for she made me promise that
if you should not forget me--if you should ever ask me what you have
just asked--she made me promise--'
'What, Winnie? what? She did not make promise that you would refuse
me?'
'That is what she asked me to promise.
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