octor is putting things on the wound so
that it sha'n't leave off hurting night or day. I dreamt I was Dante
last night. But no, I won't tell you about that. It was too horrible.
I've never been really sick before, Jack. It frightens me some. I sent
for you because I felt I wanted--a friend to talk to. It was
outrageously selfish of me."

"It was the kindest thing you could do," Babbacombe said.

"Ah, but you mustn't misunderstand." A note of wistfulness sounded in
the high voice. "You won't misunderstand, will you, Jack? I only want--a
friend."

"You needn't be afraid, Cynthia," he said. "I shall never attempt to be
anything else to you without your free consent."

"Thank you," she murmured. "I know I'm very mean. But I had such a bad
night. I thought that all the devils in hell were jeering at me because
I had told you my romance was dead. Oh, Jack! it was a great big lie,
and it's come home to roost. I can't get rid of it. It won't die."

He heard the quiver of tears in her confession, and set his teeth.

"My dear," he said, "don't fret about that. I knew it at the bottom of
my heart."

She reached out her hand to him again. "I hate myself for treating you
like this," she whispered. "But I--I'm lonely, and I can't help it.
You--you shouldn't be so kind."

"Ah, child, don't grudge me your friendship," he said. "It is the
dearest thing I have."

"It's so hard," wailed Cynthia, "that I can give you so little, when I
would so gladly give all if I could."

"You are not to blame yourself for that," he answered steadily. "You
loved each other before I ever met you."

"Loved each other!" she said. "Do you really mean that, Jack?"

He hesitated. He had not intended to say so much.

"Jack," she urged piteously, "then you think he really cares?"

"Don't you know it, Cynthia?" he asked, in a low voice.

"My heart knows it," she said brokenly. "But my mind isn't sure. Do you
know, Jack, I almost proposed to him because I felt so sure he cared.
And he--he just looked beyond me, as if--as if he didn't even hear."

"He thinks he isn't good enough for you," Babbacombe said, with an
effort. "I don't think he will ever be persuaded to act otherwise. He
seems to consider himself hopelessly handicapped."

"What makes you say that?" whispered Cynthia.

He had not meant to tell her. It was against his will that he did so;
but he felt impelled to do it. For her peace of mind it seemed
imperative that she should underst