l. You have always made me unhappy. And as for
anybody's caring for you--they _don't_; you are quite right about that.
Quite right! And I want to tell you something else: If anything happens
to me, I _want_ Maurice to marry again. But he won't marry you."

"Eleanor," Edith said, "you wouldn't say such a thing, or think such a
thing, if you weren't sick. I'm sorry I came in. I'll go right away,
and--"

"No," she said; "don't go away,"--her arms had begun to tremble with
strain of supporting her, she spoke in whispered gasps: "I am going to
speak," she said; "I prefer to speak. I want you to know that if I
die--"

"You are not going to die! You are going to get well."

"Will you _please_ not keep interrupting? It is so hard for me to get my
breath. I want you to know that he will marry--that Dale woman. Because
it is right that he should. Because of the little boy. His little boy."

Edith was dumb.

"So you see, he can't marry _you_," Eleanor said, and fell back on her
pillows, her eyes half closed.

There was a long silence, just the ticking of the Empire clock and the
faint snapping of the fire. Edith felt as if some iron hand had gripped
her throat. For a moment it was impossible for her to speak; then the
words came quietly: "Eleanor, I'm glad you told me this. You are going
to get well, and I'm glad, _glad_ that you are! But I must tell you: If
anything had happened to you, I would have moved heaven and earth to
have kept Maurice from marrying that woman. Oh, Eleanor, how can you say
you love him, and yet plan such terrible unhappiness for him?"

She turned and ran out of the room, up another flight of stairs to her
own bedroom. There she fell down on her bed and lay tense and rigid, her
face hidden in her hands. This, then, was what Maurice had meant? She
saw again the wood path, and the tall fern breaking under Maurice's
racquet; she saw the flecks of sunshine on the moss--she heard him say
he "hadn't played the game with Eleanor." Oh, he hadn't, he hadn't! Then
she thought of the Dale woman. The accident on the river. The stumble
at the gate and of Maurice's child in Lily's arms. "Oh, poor Eleanor!
poor Eleanor! ... All the same, she is wicked, to be so cruel to him.
She is taking her revenge. Jealousy has made her wicked. But, oh, I wish
I hadn't hurt her in the garden! But how _could_ Maurice--that little,
common woman! How _could_ he?" She shook with sobs: "Poor, poor
Eleanor ..."

Eleanor, on her bi