You are my very own; nothing else is my own so.

When I have finished I am going to look at your room door--" He wrote; and the wind, which had spent its fury, moaned round and round the house, most like a tired child weary with crying.
Em woke up, and sat before the fire, rubbing her eyes, and listening, as it sobbed about the gables, and wandered away over the long stone walls.
"How quiet it has grown now," she said, and sighed herself, partly from weariness and partly from sympathy with the tired wind.

He did not answer her; he was lost in his letter.
She rose slowly after a time, and rested her hand on his shoulder.
"You have many letters to write," she said.
"No," he answered; "it is only one to Lyndall." She turned away, and stood long before the fire looking into it.

If you have a deadly fruit to give, it will not grow sweeter by keeping.
"Waldo, dear," she said, putting her hand on his, "leave off writing." He threw back the dark hair from his forehead and looked at her.
"It is no use writing any more," she said.
"Why not ?" he asked.
She put her hand over the papers he had written.
"Waldo," she said, "Lyndall is dead.".