She listened to him in silence, scarcely comprehending at the moment words that later were to become the only light to guide her stumbling feet.

“Would you say that you love the dead no more because you see them not?” he questioned gently.  “The sight—­the touch—­what is it?  Only the earthly medium of Love; Love Itself is a higher thing, capable of the last sacrifice, greater than evil, stronger than death.  Oh, believe me, Christine, Death is a very small thing compared with Love.  If our love were of the spirit only, Death would be less than nothing; for it is only the body that can ever die.”

“But why can’t we be happy before we die?” whispered Chris.  “Other people are.”

He shook his head.  “I doubt it, cherie.  With death in the world there can be no perfection.  All passes—­all passes—­except only the Love that is our Life.”

He paused a moment, seeming to hesitate upon the verge of telling her something more; but in that instant she raised her head and he refrained.

“Ah, Christine,” he said sadly, “I never thought that I should make you weep like this.”

“Oh, it’s not your fault, Bertie.”  She smiled at him, with quivering lips.  “It’s just life.  But—­dearest—­I want you to know all the same—­that I’m glad—­I’m glad I love you so.  And—­whether it’s right or wrong, I can’t help it—­I shall always love you—­best of all.”

His eyes shone at the words.  A passionate answer sprang to his lips, but he stopped it unuttered.  “We are not responsible for that which we cannot help,” he said instead.  “Only—­my darling”—­for the first time the English word of endearment passed his lips, spoken almost under his breath—­“never permit the thought of me to come between you and your husband.  Be faithful, Christine—­be faithful!”

She made no answer of any sort; but her eyes were hopeless.

He waited a while, still holding her hands while tenderly he watched her.  At last, “I must go, cherie,” he whispered.

Her face quivered.  Suddenly and impetuously as of old she spoke.  “Bertie, once—­long ago—­you meant to marry me, didn’t you?”

His own face contracted.  “Do not let us torture ourselves in vain,” he urged her gently.

“But it is true!” she persisted.

He hesitated an instant.  “Yes, it is true,” he said.

She leaned her head back, looking him straight in the eyes.  There was a light in hers that he had never seen before.  They gleamed like stars, seeing him only.  “Bertie,” she said, and her voice thrilled upon the words, “I was yours then, and I am yours now.  I have always belonged to you, and you to me.  Bertie, I—­am coming with you.”

His violent start testified to the utter unexpectedness of her announcement.  Such a possibility had not, it was obvious, suggested itself to him.  He turned white to the lips.

“Christine!” he stammered incredulously.