‘As if we wanted anything to make us remember!’

‘George!’ her voice was almost a sob—­’It’s been almost too perfect.  Sometimes—­just for that—­I’m afraid.’

’Don’t be, darling.  The God we believe in isn’t a jealous God!  That’s one of the notions one grows out of—­over there.’

‘Do you think He’s our friend, George—­that He really cares?’

The sweet appealing voice touched him unbearably.

‘Yes, I do think it—­’ he said, firmly, after a pause.  ’I do believe it—­with all my heart.’

‘Then I’ll believe it!’ she said, with a long breath; and there was silence again, till suddenly over the water came the sound of the Rydal Chapel bell, striking midnight.  Nelly withdrew her hands and sat up.

‘George, we must go home.  You must have a good night.’

He obeyed her, took up the oars, and pulled swiftly to the boathouse.  She sat in a kind of dream.  It was all over, the heavenly time—­all done.  She had had the very best of life—­could it ever come again?  In her pain and her longing she was strangely conscious of growth and change.  The Nelly of three weeks back seemed to have nothing to do with her present self, to be another human being altogether.

He made her go to bed, and remained in the sitting-room himself, under pretence of some papers he must put in order.  When the sounds in the next room ceased, and he knew that she must be lying still, waiting for him, he sat down, took pen and paper, and began to write to her—­a letter to be given to her if he fell.  He had already written a letter of business directions, which was at his lawyer’s.  This was of another kind.

’My Darling,—­this will be very short.  It is only to tell you that if I fall—­if we never meet again, after to-morrow, you are to think first of all—­and always—­that you have made a man so happy that if no more joy can come to him on earth, he could die now—­as far as he himself is concerned—­blessing God for his life.  I never imagined that love could be so perfect.  You have taught me.  God reward you—­God watch over you.  If I die, you will be very sad—­that will be the bitterness to me, if I have time to know it.  But this is my last prayer to you—­to be comforted by this remembrance—­of what you have done for me—­what you have been to me.  And in time, my precious one, comfort will come.  There may be a child—­if so, you will love it for us both.  But if not, you must still take comfort.  You must be willing, for my sake, to be comforted.  And remember:—­don’t be angry with me, darling—­if in years to come, another true love, and another home should be offered you, don’t refuse them—­Nelly!  You were born to be loved.  And if my spirit lives, and understands; what could it feel but joy that your sorrow was healed—­my best beloved!

’This will be given to you only if I die.  With the deepest gratitude and the tenderest love that a man can feel, I bid you good-bye—­my precious wife—­good-bye!’