"You are attached to me, and you are afraid I-I don't love you."
Here her voice was checked by a rush of tears, and she turned her head away.
"Diana," said I, "dear Diana," and I held out my arms with what strength I had.
The colour rushed over her face and neck, and then she turned, and with a convulsive sigh laid her head upon my shoulder. One weak arm fell round her waist, and my other hand rested on her head. I said nothing. I could not speak, but I felt the beating of her heart against mine, and thought that if I died then I must be happy for ever, if there be memory in the other world.
For a long, long, blissful time she kept her place, and gradually our hearts ceased to beat so violently, and we became calm.
Such was the confession of our love. No plighted faith, no passionate vows, but the silence and the thrill of sympathy through our hearts were sweeter than words could be.
Diana raised her head and looked fearlessly but appealingly into my eyes as she asked me-
"Oh, Frank, did I do right to speak? Could it have been better if I had waited?"
She saw my wishes in my eyes, and bent down her head to me. I kissed her on the forehead and fervently prayed, "Thank God that all was as it has been. May He bless my own darling wife for ever and ever."
"Amen," said a sweet, tender voice.
We both looked up without shame, for we knew the tones of my second mother. Her face, streaming with tears of joy, was lit up by a sudden ray of sunlight through the casement.