e
red and inflamed, and little blisters had broken out all over those
kissable lips; a very damp white handkerchief lay in her lap, and two
great tears, that it had not yet wiped away, ran down her flushed
cheeks. Poor child! she put up both her small hands when I came in, to
hide her little red face; but I could see the 'salt pearls' that rolled
between her slender fingers, and melted my heart at once. Sorry and
ashamed, and afraid to speak, but more hopeful and happy than I had
often felt, I went quietly, and stood behind her chair.

'George!' she said presently, in her poor little broken voice. 'Are you
there?'

'Yes, Dora.'

'Are you very angry with me?'

I put one of my hands down over the chair-back, and drew both hers away
from before her face, and then came round and kissed it; I could not
think of anything better to do.

'Yon are not going away?'

I shook my head. 'That is not for me to say.'

'Who then? Will you please tell me what you mean, George?' She was very
gentle and submissive, but the coaxing voice trembled painfully, and the
burning hand I touched began to grow cold.

'It is for you to say, Dora, dear! Did you need to ask me that, after
all these years?'

Without a single word, but with a fond impulsive movement, that answered
quite well instead, she turned to me, and putting both her little arms
around my neck, laid her feverish cheek against mine, and cried, as if
her heart were breaking.

'My dearest! what is the matter?'

'I thought you were angry with me, and had gone for good; I though I had
worn your patience out at last, and you would never forgive me or come
back again. Why did you come back, Georgy?'

'Because I loved you, Dora, and couldn't stay away.'

'Yes, you would, if I had not been sick--mother told me so. I had
treated you too shamefully, and wounded you too cruelly; but it hurt me,
too, and I deserved to have you not forgive me for all I must have made
you suffer. You were proud, but you were very patient, Georgy; how long
have I plagued you?'

'Twenty years!'

'Then I have loved you twenty years, and tried not to let you know it. I
was very proud, very wicked, very mean, but I am sorry now. I was
ashamed to have you or anybody see how much I liked you; but now I don't
care, I'll tell the truth before I die. I am glad I am sick, George; for
if I don't get well, you will remember what I said, and will have
thought better of me; and if I live--'

'My dear Dora,