“Yes.”

“And happy?”

“I think so, Arthur.  As happy as any of us can be, amid severed ties and dread uncertainties.”

“I am glad that she is well.  Harold, you will tell her, for I am sure you will meet again, you will tell her it was my dying wish that you two should be united.  Will you promise, Harold?”

“I will tell her all that you wish, Arthur.”

“I seem to feel that I shall be happy in my grave, to know that, she will be your wife; to know that my guilty love—­for I loved her, Harold, and it was guilt to love—­to know that it left no poison behind, that its shadow has passed away from the path that you must tread.”

“Speak not of guilt, my friend.  There could live no crime between two such noble hearts.  And had I thought you would have accepted the sacrifice, I could almost have been happy to have given her to you, so much was her happiness the aim of my own love.”

“Yes, for you have a glorious heart, Harold; and I thank Heaven that she cannot fail to love you.  And you do not think, do you, Harold, that it would be wrong for you two to speak of me when I am gone?  I cannot bear to think that you should deem it necessary to drive me from your memories, as one who had stepped in between your hearts.  I am sure she will love you none the less for her remembrance of me, and therefore sometimes you will talk together of me, will you not?”

“Yes, we will often talk of you, for what dearer theme to both could we choose; what purer recollections could our memories cherish than of the friend we both loved so much, and who so well deserved our love?”

“And I am forgiven, Harold?”

“Were there aught to be forgiven, I would forgive; but I have never harbored in my most secret heart one trace of anger or resentment toward you.  Do not talk more, dear Arthur.  To-morrow, perhaps, you will be stronger, and then we will speak again.  Here comes your mother, and she will scold me for letting you fatigue yourself so much.”

“Raise me a little on the pillow, please.  I seem to breathe more heavily to-night.  Thank you, I will sleep now.  Good night, mother; I will eat the gruel when I wake.  I had rather sleep now.  Good night, Harold!”

He fell into a slumber almost immediately, and they would not disturb him, although his mother had prepared the food he had been used to take.

“I think he is better to-night.  He seems to sleep more tranquilly,” said Mrs. Wayne.  “If you will step below, I have got a dish of tea for you, and some little supper.”

Harold went down and refreshed himself at the widow’s neat and hospitable board, and then walked out into the evening, to dissipate, if possible, the cloud that was lowering about his heart.  He paced up and down the avenue of willows, and though the fresh night air soothed the fever of his brain, he could not chase away the gloom that weighed upon his spirit.  His mind wandered among mournful memories—­the field of battle, strewn with the dying and the dead; the hospital where brave suffering men were groaning under the surgeon’s knife; the sick chamber, where his friend was dying.