Life and Death of Harriett Frean. Sinclair May

Hatty.”

      “Still,” Hatty said, “they do.”

      “It’s because they haven’t ever cared as you and me care. . . . Hatty, if I don’t marry anybody, you won’t, will you?”

      “I’m not thinking of marrying anybody.”

      “No. But promise, promise on your honour you won’t ever.”

      “I’d rather not promise. You see, I might. I shall love you all the same, Priscilla, all my life.”

      “No, you won’t. It’ll all be different. I love you more than you love me. But I shall love you all my life and it won’t be different. I shall never marry.”

      “Perhaps I shan’t, either,” Harriett said.

      They exchanged gifts. Harriett gave Priscilla a rosewood writing-desk inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and Priscilla gave Harriett a pocket-handkerchief case she had made herself of fine grey canvas embroidered with blue flowers like a sampler and lined with blue and white plaid silk. On the top part you read “Pocket-handkerchiefs” in blue lettering, and on the bottom “Harriett Frean,” and, tucked away in one corner, “Priscilla Heaven: September, 1861.”