“But I have felt worse⁠—it was worse to think ill⁠—” Dorothea had begun impetuously, but broke off.

Will colored. He had the sense that whatever she said was uttered in the vision of a fatality that kept them apart. He was silent a moment, and then said passionately⁠—

“We may at least have the comfort of speaking to each other without disguise. Since I must go away⁠—since we must always be divided⁠—you may think of me as one on the brink of the grave.”

While he was speaking there came a vivid flash of lightning which lit each of them up for the other⁠—and the light seemed to be the terror of a hopeless love. Dorothea darted instantaneously from the window; Will followed her, seizing her hand with a spasmodic movement; and so they stood, with their hands clasped, like two children, looking out on the storm, while the thunder gave a tremendous crack and roll above them, and the rain began to pour down. Then they turned their faces towards each other, with the memory of his last words in them, and they did not loose each other’s hands.