"We were, and are still," she answered huskily, "and shall be to the end."
He nodded. "To the end."
Hand in hand they sat as the daylight faded in the quiet room, seemingly oblivious of the presence of the watcher, who stood immovable, as if turned to stone, beside the door. Now and again Francis would ask a question and Isabella would answer, but for the most part they were silent. Words were of no avail to help him--they could not reconstruct his shattered world or bring back those he had loved and lost. And it was too soon for her to urge him to take courage, or to tell him that perhaps his happiness of the last few weeks might prove to have been something more than a dream.
When at last she rose to leave him he said slowly, "I cannot understand it yet--I must have time--but it comforts me to know that while so much is lost, you are still here, and you are still the same."
She fought back the tears that were blinding her. "I am always the same--remember that--and I am here when you want me. Good-night, dear Francis."
"Good-night, dear friend."