"I will give you these sheets that I have written," she said; "by right
they belong to you. I am sorry the story was interrupted, for I very
much want to hear the end of it, and now I never shall."
I caught at a straw. "Sylvia," I cried, "let us sit down and finish the
story! We can surely do that. Come, it is all ready in my mind. I will
dictate rapidly."
She shook her head. "Hardly," she answered, "after what has been said.
Here are your pages."
I took the pages she handed me, because she had written them.
"Sylvia," I exclaimed, "I shall finish that story, and you shall hear
it! This I vow."
"I am going now," she responded. "Good-by."
"Sylvia," I cried, quickly stepping after her as she moved away, "will
you not say more than that? Will you not even give me your hand?"
"I will do that," she replied, stopping, "if you will promise not to
kiss it."
I took her hand, and held it a few moments without a word. Then she
gently withdrew it.
"Good-by again," she said, "I don't want you to forget me; but when you
think of me, always think of me as a sister of the House of Martha."
As I stood looking after her, she rapidly walked toward the house, and I
groaned while thinking I had not told her that if she ever thought of me
she must remember I loved her, and would love her to the end of my life.
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