is a jest that the world is having
at my expense." He remembered praise and prizes that he had won in
contests with other students, and he was too excited to see the folly of
his answer: "That was charity, the award of kindness to me. I know now
what they thought--that for a blind man the thing was nearly enough
correct to be interesting and quite amusing."

His body felt hot, and he went outside to prowl about in the wind and
snow, like a despairing beast. His mind kept up its terrible work, and
he did not notice the continual drop in temperature. Round and round the
cabin he walked, instead of going into the forest, as he would have done
the day before. In his mind was a sudden doubt of his own ability, and
he said that Claire had been right to keep him in. She was more aware of
his pitiable weakness than he. At last, however, from sheer weariness he
went inside. He was chilled through, but instead of rebuilding the fire
and warming himself, he rolled up in a blanket and lay on the bed,
chilling and burning by turns.

In the mean time Claire and Philip were discussing the man in the cabin.
Philip had finally broken the silence by saying: "Claire, you needn't
feel so about whatever has happened. Remember he is blind and must be
treated less critically than other men."

She knew that that was just what had made Lawrence so deadly white when
she had spoken, and it filled her with sickening pain. She answered
unsteadily: "That isn't true. It isn't Lawrence, anyway, it's myself who
should be condemned."

Philip was thoughtful. "It is like you to take the blame on yourself.
You are so kind-hearted that way."

In her present state, his words seemed like a reproach. "Philip, don't,"
she said sadly. "I know better than that."

He persisted. "No, you do not. You are too sympathetic, and you let your
heart get the better of you."

"I wish you wouldn't talk that way," she repeated. "You wouldn't, if you
knew the truth."

"Of course, I do not know what happened," he said, "but I do know
you--even better than you know yourself."

"Do you know what I've done?"

"No, and I do not care. It was right, I am sure. The queen can do no
wrong." He was intensely serious.

"Isn't there any common sense left in you, Philip?" she railed. "Have
you gone clear back into medieval nonsense in your feeling toward me? I
tell you, you are indulging in foolishness."

"Am I?" He smiled. "Well, if that is the best I have to give--"

"I