't know it hurt you."

"It does--more than you realize."

"I'm sorry," he said quickly.

He fumbled about for her hand. She allowed him to take it.

"Have you heard from Covington since he left?"

He felt her fingers twitch.

"Does it hurt, too, to talk about him?" he asked.

"It's impossible to talk about Monte without talking about
his--his--about Mrs. Covington," Marjory explained feebly.

"They ought to be one," he admitted. "But you said they are about to
separate."

"Yes, Peter; only I keep thinking of what ought to be."

She withdrew her hand and leaned back on the seat a little away from him.
Sensitive to every movement of hers, he glanced up at this.

"Somehow,"--he said, with a strained expression,--"somehow I feel the
need of seeing your eyes to-day. There's something I 'm missing.
There's something here I don't understand."

"Don't try to understand, Peter," she cried. "It's better that you
should n't."

"It's best always to know the truth," he said.

"Not always."

"Always," he insisted.

"Sometimes it does n't do any good to know the truth. It only hurts."

"Even then, it's best. When I get my eyes--"

She shrank farther away from him, for she saw him struggling even then to
open them.

It was this possibility which from that point on added a new terror to
these daily drives. Marjory had told Monte that Peter's recovery was
something to which she looked forward; but when she said that she had
been sitting alone and pouring out her heart to Monte. She had not then
been facing this fact by the side of Peter. It was one thing to dream
boldly, with all her thoughts of Monte, and quite another to confront the
same facts actually and alone. If this crisis came now, it was going to
hurt her and hurt Peter, and do no good to any one; while, if it could be
postponed six months, perhaps it would not hurt so much. It was better
for Peter to endure his blindness a little longer than to see too soon.
So the next day she decided she would not kiss his eyes. He came to her
in the morning, and stood before her, waiting. She placed her hand upon
his shoulder.

"Peter," she said as gently as she could, "I do not think I shall kiss
you again for a little while."

She saw his lips tighten; but, to her surprise, he made no protest.

"No, dear heart," he answered.

"It is n't because I wish to be unkind," she said. "Only, until you know
the whole truth, I don't feel honest with you.