The wind having blown open the door, I got up to shut it. Winifred
rose too, and again taking hold of my hand, she looked up into my
face with a smile, and said, 'Don't go; I'm so lonely--poor Winnie's
so lonely.'
As I held her hand in mine, and closed my other hand over it, I
murmured to myself, 'If God will only give her to me like this--mad
like this--I will be content.'
'Dearest,' I said, longing to put my arm round her waist--to kiss her
own passionless lips--but I dared not, lest I might frighten her
away, 'I will not leave you. I will never leave you. You shall never
be lonely any more.'
I closed the door, and we resumed our seats.
Can I put into words what passed within my soul as we two sat by the
fire, she holding my hand in her own--holding it as innocently as a
child holds the hand of its mother? Can I put into words my mingled
feelings of love and pity and wild grief, as I sat looking at her and
murmuring, 'Yes; if God will only give her to me like _this_, I will
be content'?
'Prince,' said she, 'your eyes look very kind!--Sweet, sweet eyes,'
she continued, looking at me.
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