MIDWINTER.
THE spring had advanced to the end of April. It was the eve of Allan's wedding-day. Midwinter and he had sat talking together at the great house till far into the night--till so far that it had struck twelve long since, and the wedding day was already some hours old.
For the most part the conversation had turned on the bridegroom's plans and projects. It was not till the two friends rose to go to rest that Allan insisted on making Midwinter speak of himself.
"We have had enough, and more than enough, of _my_ future," he began, in his bluntly straightforward way. "Let's say something now, Midwinter, about yours. You have promised me, I know, that, if you take to literature, it shan't part us, and that, if you go on a sea-voyage, you will remember, when you come back, that my house is your home. But this is the last chance we have of being together in our old way; and I own I should like to know--" His voice faltered, and his eyes moistened a little. He left the sentence unfinished.
Midwinter took his hand and helped him, as he had often helped him to the words that he wanted in the by-gone time.
"You would like to know, Allan," he said, "that I shall not bring an aching heart with me to your wedding day? If you will let me go back for a moment to the past, I think I can satisfy you."They took their chairs again. Allan saw that Midwinter was moved.