"Do you think she loves him?" Jean asked.
"I hope so," heartily.
"But to send him away so--easily. Oh, Derry, she can't care."
"She is sending him not easily, but bravely. Margaret let her husband
go like that."
"Would you want me to let you go like that, Derry?"
"Yes, dear."
"Wouldn't you want me to--cry?"
"Perhaps. Just a little tear. But I should want you to think beyond
the tears. I should want you to know that for us there can be no real
separation. You are mine to the end of all eternity, Jean."
He believed it. And she believed it. And perhaps, after all, it was
true. There must be a very separate and special Heaven for those who
love once, and never love again.
Drusilla came away from the window to sing for them--a popular song.
But there was much in it to intrigue the imagination--a vision of the
heroic Maid--a hint of the Marseillaise--and so the nations were
singing it--.
"Jeanne d'Arc, Jeanne d'Arc,
Oh, soldats! entendez vous?
'Allons, enfants de la patrie,'
Jeanne d'Arc, la victoire est pour vous--"
There was a new note in Drusilla's voice. A note of tears as well as
of triumph--and at the last word she broke down and covered her face
with her hands.
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