t
at times would have engulfed it altogether, but for that unflinching
reasonableness which made her the girl she was. "It may be," Edith had
said to herself; "it _may_ be that what I said to her in the garden made
her so angry that she tried to kill herself; but why should it have made
her angry? I didn't injure her. Besides, she dragged it out of me! I
couldn't lie. She said, 'You love him.' I _would_ not lie, and say I
didn't! But what harm did it do her?" So she reasoned; but reason did
not keep her from suffering. "Did _I_ drive her to it?" Edith said,
over and over. So when her mother told her Eleanor wanted to speak to
her, she grew a little pale. When she entered Eleanor's room her heart
was beating so hard she felt smothered, but she was perfectly matter of
fact. "Anything I can do for you, Eleanor?" she said. She stood at the
foot of the bed, holding on to the carved bed post.

Eleanor looked at her for a silent moment, then gathered herself
together. "Edith," she said (she was very hoarse and spoke with
difficulty), "I don't want to bother Maurice about--about my accident.
So I am going to ask you, please, not to refer to it to him. Not to tell
him anything about it. _Anything._ Promise me."

"Of course I won't!" Edith said. As she spoke she forgot herself in pity
for the scared, haggard face. ("Oh, _was_ it my fault?" she thought,
with a real pang.) And before she knew it her coldness was all gone and
she was at Eleanor's side; she sat down on the edge of the bed and
caught her hand impulsively. "Eleanor," she said, "I've been awfully
unhappy, for fear anything I said--that morning--troubled you? Of course
there was no sense in talking that way, for either of us. So please
forgive me! _Was_ it what I said, that made you--that bothered you, I
mean? I'm so unhappy," Edith said, and caught her lip between her teeth
to keep it steady; her eyes were bright with tears. "Eleanor, truly I am
_nothing_ to--to anybody. Nobody cares a copper for me! Do be kind to
me. Oh--I've been awfully unhappy; and I'm _so_ glad you're better."

Instantly the smoldering fire broke into flame: "I'm _not_ better,"
Eleanor said, "and you wouldn't be glad if I were."

It was as if she struck her hand upon those generous young lips. Edith
sprang to her feet. "Eleanor!"

Eleanor sat up in bed, her hands behind her, propping her up; her cheeks
were dully red, her eyes glowing. "All this talk about making me unhappy
means nothing at al