"
"Life? A very little bit of it, and what a life! Waiting for death.
Shall I tell you what Dr. Mead, the great physician, told my father who
asked him to see me? 'That young man hasn't long to live. I give him a
year. Killed by the Newgate pestilence.' Now, what do you say, Miss
Fenton?"
"Don't call me Miss Fenton," cried Lavinia, her voice quivering. "It
makes us seem miles apart. You poor fellow! But doctors aren't always
right."
"This one is. I feel it. But I don't care so long as you forgive me and
make me believe I'm no longer a stranger. You do pardon me, don't you,
Lavinia?"
"Oh, yes--yes--let us forget everything but our two selves," she cried
impulsively. Her heart was overflowing with pity. She held out both her
hands. He seized them and raised them to his lips.
"May I meet you to-morrow?" he whispered. "The only thing I would live
for is the joy of seeing you, of hearing your voice. It will be but for
a short time."
"Oh, you mustn't say that. You don't know," she cried tremulously.
A wistful smile stole over his wan face. Silently he held her hands for
a few seconds, pressed them spasmodically and the next moment they were
free. He had crept away.
A wave of emotion swept over Lavinia. Her temples throbbed. A lump rose
in her throat. Her eyes were streaming. She was inexpressibly sad.
Jealousy, resentment, every harsh feeling had disappeared.
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