he'd never forgive me if he
knew I was talking like this! But I can't help it. It was because he
would not talk--because he kept it a secret all to himself that this
came upon him. They told me at the hospital that it was overwork and
worry, and that he had only one chance in a hundred. But I sat by his
side, Marjory, night and day, and coaxed him back. Little by little he
grew stronger--all except his poor eyes. It was then he told me the
truth: how he had tried to forget you in his work."

"He--he blamed me?"

Beatrice was still clinging to her hands.

"No," she answered quickly. "He did not blame you. We never blame
those we love, do we?"

"But we hurt those we love!"

"Only when we don't understand. You did not know he loved you like
that, did you?"

Marjory withdrew her hands.

"He had no right!" she cried.

Beatrice was silent a moment. There was a great deal here that she
herself did not understand. But, though she herself had never loved,
there was a great deal she did understand. She spoke as if thinking
aloud.

"I have not found love--yet," she said. "But I never thought it was a
question of right when people loved. I thought it--it just happened."

Marjory drew a quick breath.

"Yes; it is like that," she admitted.

Only, she was not thinking of Peter. She was thinking of herself. A
week ago she would have smiled at that phrase. Even yesterday she
would have smiled a little. Love was something a woman or man
undertook or not at will. It was a condition to choose as one chose
one's style of living. It was accepted or rejected, as suited one's
pleasure. If a woman preferred her freedom, then that was her right.

Then, less than an hour ago, she had flung out her hands toward the
shadowy figure of a man walking alone by the sea, her heart aching with
a great need for the love that might have been hers had she not smiled.
That need, springing of her own love, had just happened. The
fulfillment of it was a matter to be decided by her own conscience; but
the love itself had involved no question of right. She felt a wave of
sympathy for Peter. She was able to feel for him now as never before.
Poor Peter, lying there alone in the hospital! How the ache,
unsatisfied, ate into one.

"Peter would n't tell me at first," Beatrice was running on. "His lips
were as tight closed as his poor bandaged eyes."

"The blindness," broke in Marjory. "That is not permanent?"

"I will