"
Langholm felt for the emaciated hand, and stroked it as though it had
been a child's. Yet that was the hand that had slain Alexander Minchin!
And Langholm thought of it; and still his own was almost womanly in the
tender pity of its touch.
"I want to tell you," the sick lad murmured. "I wanted to tell her--God
knows it--and that alone was why I came to her the moment I could find
out where she was. No--no--not that alone! I am too ill to pretend any
more. It was not all pretence when I let you think it was only passion
that drove me down here. I believe I should have come, even if I had had
nothing at all to tell her--only to be near her--as I was this
afternoon! But the other made it a duty. Yet, when she came this
afternoon, I could not do my duty. I had not the courage. It was too big
a thing just to be with her again! And then the other lady--I thanked
God for her too--for she made it impossible for me to speak. But to you
I must ... especially after what you say."
The man came out in Langholm's ministrations. "One minute," he said; and
returned in two or three with a pint of tolerable champagne. "I keep a
few for angel's visits," he explained; "but I am afraid I must light the
candle.
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