Dorothy was waiting to see him. She was still excited, still anxious
concerning himself. She had quite forgotten his words about the will
in her worry lest the blow on his head had proved more serious than had
at first appeared.

He met her quietly in a large, common parlor--the duplicate of a
thousand such rooms in New York--and was thoroughly determined to curb
the impetuous surging of his feelings. She was wearing a bunch of his
carnations, and had never seemed more beautiful in all her wondrous
moods of beauty.

Just to have sat where he could look upon her all he wished, without
restraint or conventions, would almost have satisfied his soul. But
she gave him her hand with a grace so compelling, and her eyes asked
their question so tenderly--a question only of his welfare--that riot
was loosed in his veins once more and love surged over him in billows.

"I was afraid you might not come," she said. "I have never been more
worried or afraid. Such a terrible moment--all of it--and that
creature striking you down! If you hadn't come I'd have been so sure
you were very badly hurt. I'd have felt so guilty for all I've done to
jeopardize your life in my petty affairs."

"It's all right. I was ashamed for going out so easily," said
Garrison, turning away in self-defense and seating himself in a chair.
"He struck me so suddenly I had no time to guard. But that part isn't
worth another thought."

"I thought it the _only_ part worth anything," said Dorothy in her
honesty. "It came upon me suddenly that nothing I was after was worth
the risks you've been assuming in my behalf. And they may not be
ended. I wish they were. I wish it were all at an end! But Foster is
innocent. If you knew how glad I am of that you would feel a little
repaid."

"I feel thoroughly repaid and gratified," said Garrison. "I have told
you before that I am glad you came into my existence with your
need--your case. I have no regret over anything that has happened--to
myself. It has been life to me--life! And I take a certain pride in
feeling that when you come to dismiss me, at the end, I shall not have
been an absolute disappointment."

She looked at him in a new alarm. He had purposely spoken somewhat
bluntly of his impending dismissal. She had come to a realizing sense
that she could never dismiss him from her life--that to have him near,
to know he was well--to love him, in a word--had become the one motive
of her life.